Play It Again, Sam
by GrammarDemon
Summary: You think Dean is difficult? Try living with him when he's been toddler-ized. (WARNING: contains tantrums and mentions of purple dinosaurs. Earplugs recommended.) Rated T for swear words (still from Dean). Angst (from Sam's POV). Hurt/comfort for boo-boos. Rumors of Sam/Cas pairing. Crowley/Cas. Road trip. Sibling rivalry. Dr. Seuss! OFC. Goldfish crackers. BYO sippy cup and duice.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: For those of you who worry about such things: as best as I can tell, this occurs sometime between season 6-7 (but don't come after me if I'm wrong). Bobby is still alive, Cas is still an angel and the boys are busy doing what they do. You know. Hunting things and saving people. Or trying to, anyway. You know how that works._

_BTW, yes, I know...this type of story has been done before. But-not by me. Think of this as revenge on my children. They may be teenagers now, but my brain is still healing from the TT (toddler trauma) they inflicted. Those of you who have small children understand what this means...Anyhow, I apologize if you find any lop over with similar fanfic. I didn't mean it. It was an accident. (Caused by brain damage. Caused by my children.)_

**ONE**

The worst part of Dean being hexed to toddlerhood wasn't that he didn't remember his life as an adult, or how to hunt, or how to speak properly, or even how to use the toilet (something Sam wasn't thrilled about but could deal with).

No, the worst part of Dean's becoming a toddler (again) was that he still remained—essentially—Dean. Stubborn, opinionated (in a toddler-sense kind of way) and most of all, demanding. Then again, the small amount of research Sam had been able to do in the past ten hours indicated that these were common toddler behaviors.

Which ultimately—in Sam's best, educated opinion-meant that Dean's natural state of adulthood was, in fact, indicative of development somehow arrested at about eighteen months.

He tried not to think about this as he gripped the steering wheel in white-knuckled fists and stared grimly ahead, attempting to ignore the child—the formerly demanding adult Dean—who was throwing the Mother of All Temper Tantrums in the back seat of the Impala.

Which was, oddly, not so different from the hissy fits he'd pull as a grownup, especially when Sam tried to introduce any kind of music other than Metallica and AC/DC to their driving repertoire.

"A'din! A'din, Dam! Pway it a'din!" the child shrieked, pressing his heels into the seat of the car and pressing upwards until his small body had formed a perfect arch, straining the restraints across his chest to their limit. "I. Wan'. Wheeels!"

"No, Dean," Sam ground through clenched teeth. "No more 'Wheels'."

_Slam!_ His miniaturized brother threw his body back into the child safety seat and began to kick until the Impala's seat rattled. "Wheeeeeeeeeels!"

"No." Sam said, trying to sound calm. He reminded himself that he was the adult here. That he wasn't about to let a toddler run the show. Even if that toddler was his big brother. "We've listened to Wheels enough." Twenty-seven times in a row, as a matter of fact. He'd started paying attention after the fifth play; by the tenth repetition, he'd developed a twitch in one eye. He was pretty sure that if he gave in and played the song again, he'd discover he was bleeding from his ears.

The Happy Meal's _under three_ boy's toy he'd gotten for Dean a few hours previously flew through the air and smacked Sam in the back of the head before bouncing off to land on the passenger seat. Apparently, toddler-Dean had retained his adult self's propensity for accurate aim as well as his attitude about obsessively listening to his favorite music. "Wheeeeeels!"

Sam chewed the inside of his cheek, remembering something about _driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole_. "No wheels, Dean. Wheels is broken."

Dean's demanding shriek turned into a heart-broken wail. "No. No, Dammy. Wheels is…bwoken? Oh no. No. No more wheeeeeeels!"

A sense of shame washed over him. Lying to a child—even if the child _was_ Dean—felt like one of the slimiest things he could do. A tantruming toddler was one thing; this was painful to see (as well as hear). Sam did the only thing a rational adult could do when faced with such trauma.

He gave in.

"All right! I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Look. Look, Wheels is fixed. I fixed it. Here." He pressed the play button on his mp3 and steeled himself for the twenty-eighth playing of Barney the Fucking Purple Dinosaur singing The Wheels on the Bus with a group of demented child-aged performers of questionable talent.

"Wheels!" Dean chirped happily and rolled his fists one over the other as Sam had taught him the first time he'd mistakenly played the song. Back when he was actually enjoying the novelty of being the older of the two of them. Back when toddler Dean had seemed kind of cute and cuddly instead of demonic and demanding. "Go wound and wound, wound and wound, wound and wound…" he sang in his high-pitched little voice.

Sam had drunk demon blood. He'd been to Hell and even been possessed by Lucifer. But nothing had ever made him cringe as much as the sound of his big brother's tiny voice piping along with Barney.

"Round and round," Sam agreed wearily, and glanced down at his phone. Four more hours. Four more hours to Bobby's, and hopefully, a cure for this hex.

Because if he had to listen to Wheels on the Bus one more—

"A'din, Dammy! A'din!"

He was going to summon Crowley and beg to be let back into Hell. It was easier to endure than this.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Crap, boy, you look like—well, crap." Bobby greeted Sam on the porch of his house.

Sam trudged wearily up the steps, Dean in his arms. Dean's head rested on his shoulder and he snored faintly. His fine, flyaway hair tickled Sam's cheek.

"Awww, he's a cute little bugger, I'll give him that." The older man peered at the boy. "He sucks his thumb?"

Sam managed to grunt in response. His ears were ringing. Dean had managed to stay awake until about thirty minutes from Singer Salvage and up until then had been a constant and increasingly whiny stream of demands for wheels and wound and wound. It was a wonder Sam's head hadn't exploded.

He carried his brother inside and lay him on the couch. The sharp ammonia reek of warm urine wafted up to his nose, and he realized Dean's diaper was soaked through enough to make his small jeans wet and Sam's shirtfront, too. Despair washed over him. If he left Dean wet, he'd get a rash. If Sam tried to change him, he might awaken. Sam might have to kill him, then-he couldn't take anymore of his peanut-sized older brother.

"Here. You look like you could use this." Bobby appeared from behind him and tapped his bicep with a half-full bottle of cheap hooch.

_Finally._ Something he could relate to. He took the bottle, opened it and took a swig, welcoming its fiery burn all the way down into his gullet. He closed his eyes and let the booze pool in his stomach where it sat, churning and welcome, a reminder of all the other things that drove him crazy about his brother. Things that were so much better than this.

Bobby leaned over the small, sleeping boy, then reared back. "Kid reeks. What're you feeding him?"

Sam sighed and chugged another swig before answering. "I'll go get the bag of diapers."

"Diapers? He's in diapers?" Bobby sounded alarmed. Sam didn't blame him.

"As far as I can tell, he's about eighteen months old. I haven't had much time to research kids. I tried, but he was…too distracting." And, when he'd stopped at a library, Dean had run off in the blink of an eye and gotten lost in the stacks.

It had been terrifying, realizing that his brother was gone, unable to care for or protect himself and worse, at the mercy of human monsters as well as real monsters. And when he'd found Dean hanging like a monkey off the top of one of tall shelving units, Sam had realized that Dean was also in danger from his inherent curiosity and energy. As a small child, he was hardwired to move, to explore, to taste, touch, and experience life—but thinking first wasn't part of the program. The thinking, and the protecting and planning, that was all up to Sam.

He emptied the bottle. "When I realized he'd need clothes, I stopped at a consignment shop; the woman there asked if that's how old he was."

It was only because Sam had experience in hiding the truth that he was able to summon up the story that he was a Fed and Dean was a recently rescued kidnapped child who needed clothes instead of a blanket. She'd given him several small outfits out of the goodness of her heart, and Sam was so overwhelmed with the fact that she'd pronounced his brother at age "about eighteen months", that he hadn't felt the least bit guilty about taking advantage of her with his lies. She'd provided the car seat, too, and even helped him install it. And all the while, Dean had flashed his baby-greens at her, blinking at her and the other unsuspecting shopping mommies with his absurdly long eyelashes, and flirting like the manwhore he usually was.

Only, instead of sex, he flirted for teddy-bear shaped graham and cheddar cheese-flavored goldfish crackers. It was frightening, really.

"I'll go get his clothes, too. I think there are pajamas. You think I should put pajamas on him?" He turned to face the older hunter, hoping Bobby would make an executive decision and take the responsibility of the whole mess off his shoulders. At least, for a minute.

"How the hell should I know? I've never taken care of a kid that little," Bobby answered. "You were older when your dad started dropping you off here. I think you already knew how to use the john."

"Dean taught me," Sam answered. He wanted to cry. If Dean was here, he'd know how to toilet train a toddler. The irony was unbearable. He shook himself and went out to the car to get the supplies.

0-0-0-0-0

Fortunately, Dean was out for the count. Apparently, being a light sleeper was a trait he'd acquired only after he'd become an adult hunter ready for any conflict or calamity. Which was a good thing—Sam almost broke his leg trying to shove it into the footed pajamas. For some reason, they didn't have convenient snaps like the jeans had, and if they weren't the only jammies he'd gotten and if it wasn't so cold, he would have forgotten the whole enterprise.

"I think you should pull the leg part of the pajamas over his foot instead of the other way around," Bobby observed. "You can't just jam it in, boy."

"Thanks, Bobby. I'll try that." Sam realized his shoulders were up around his ears. He'd been thinking that once he got to his foster father's everything would fall into place and the problem would be solved. But that wasn't the case. Dean was still—essentially—a baby, and now he had to deal with useless advice from an old coot who acted like he knew everything but remained hands-off, more of an amused observer than a participant in the nightmare that was—as usual—Sam's life.

He bunched up the pajama leg in his fist and slid the hole part over his brother's small foot. After that, it was a matter of sliding the thing into place. The same technique worked for Dean's arms, and before long the little boy was snuggly wrapped in a pair of fuzzy navy blue footies with a firetruck stitched over the left breast.

Should be a ward, Sam thought dimly. When he'd been zapped back to toddlerhood, all Deans' scars, wards and tats had also been nixed. Just like all his knowledge and experience. He lifted the boy up, ready to carry him to his usual bed, pausing when he realized Dean might wake up and wander around unsupervised during the night. "Do you think we should put him in the panic room? He won't be able to escape while we're sleeping."

"That's a little drastic, don't you think?" Bobby touched Dean's head, then, as if he couldn't _not_ make contact with the little boy. "Putting a tot in an iron cell?"

Sam thought about Dean's face when he'd found him hanging off the shelf in the library. Fearless. Dauntless. Clueless. "He'd be safe."

"I dunno. Seems to me we could take shifts. You look like you're just about done in. I'll take the first one."

It was the best thing Sam had heard all day.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: I probably shouldn't post this chapter so quickly after posting the first, but it's a long weekend and there are Playoffs to watch this afternoon, and my laundry is piled so high, we lost the dog in it. So it's best to post this now, before life intrudes any more than it already has._

_Damn you, life._

_Speaking of which: I have no beta reader, so I'm writing this story without a safety net. So if you are up to it, please leave me a (hopefully kind) review. All I can think of is "too many words" (one of which is, in fact, "life"). And while you're doing that, I'm going to be making a big pot of chili (you know, football. Playoffs. Today.) and doing laundry, and hopefully trying to figure out what happens in chapter three. (You'd think I'd know, already. Wouldn't you?) I can promise you this: Cas and Dean are going to be doing something. (Oh, you slashers. Stop it. He's only a baby!)_

TWO

"Dam? Is you dere?"

Sam heard the small voice before he felt the fingers trying to pry his eyelids open. Sharp little fingernails scratched at his skin. He sat up, intending to push Dean's hand away from his face but accidentally pushing _him_ to the floor, instead.

Dean's head made a banging sound that could be heard through the whole house, which shook to its foundation. He lay there, staring up at his brother, stunned. Then his little face turned purple, and crumpled, and he began to screech as huge tears spurted from his wounded green eyes.

_Good fucking morning to me._ Sam got out of bed and picked Dean up, cradling him to his shoulder, his hand pressed to the back of the boy's head. "Shh. Dean. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! You scared me." Or _something_. He hadn't remembered how small his brother was, or realized how close to the edge of the bed he was, either. He stroked Dean's hair. _Crap._ A lump was already rising there. With Sam's luck, Dean was probably concussed, maybe to the point of brain damage.

Then again, would it make a difference? After all, Dean was now a Barney fan, formerly a metal fan...would anyone even notice brain damage? It was practically status quo...

"What the hell is going on in here?" Bobby appeared in the doorway. "What was that bang?"

"I knocked Dean off the bed and he hit the floor." Sam jiggled the crying toddler, rocking him frantically. He looked for and gave voice to the appropriate ire. "I thought you were _watching_ him!"

"I was!" Bobby advanced to push Sam's hand from the back of Dean's head and inspect the growing bump. "Aw, geezum crow. Bring him downstairs. We'll see if he lets us put ice on it, get the swelling to stop."

Sam followed him down the stairs. Dean's fingers were tangled in his hair, yanking it out by the roots, probably. It figured. He always threatened Sam with the clippers whenever he felt his hair was too long; now he was using it for a wubbie as he stroked the strands into tangled knots. Sam winced but let his brother use his hair for a comfort toy anyway, especially when Dean popped his other thumb in his mouth and stopped wailing. When he rested his head on Sam's shoulder his whole, small body relaxed.

It would have been endearing if it wasn't so fucking weird.

In the kitchen, Sam hooked a chair with his foot and pulled it out so he could sit on it. "If you were watching him, why was he opening my eyeballs with razor sharp nails? If I hadn't heard him talking, I would have ganked him with the knife under my pillow!"

Bobby pulled a bag of peas from the freezer and handed them to Sam. "Well, there's no denying it. You boys have gotten yourself into a helluva pile of shit, this time."

"Thanks. Yeah, I noticed. Speaking of which, were you able to figure out how long this is going to last?" Sam tried to put the peas on the boy's head, but when Dean started to whine and arch his body to avoid the cold bag, he gave up and dropped it on the table. Dean cuddled on his lap with his head tucked under Sam's chin and sucked at his thumb. Sam tried to ignore the glowing sort of warm and fuzzy way his heart began to expand as it filled with an unexpected, gooey, _I'll-Do-Anything-for-You_ kind of love. _Crap._ The last thing he wanted to do was have a parent-child bond with his brother—apparently, his physiology had other ideas. And this time around, _he_ was the parent. Damn it, Dean was the father figure in their twisted relationship. This whole thing was upside down.

"I haven't been able to figure anything out at all. I was sitting on the couch most of the night with him, afraid to move. I must have fallen asleep, though, and he woke up. Fortunately, all he did was go looking for you." Bobby dropped into the chair opposite Sam.

"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. At least he didn't try to go outside." Sudden thoughts of Dean the mutant monkey-boy trying to scale a mountain of busted out, rusted out cars made Sam's stomach clench with panic. He didn't even _want_ to think about the weapons left around the house, ready to be used at a moment's notice…but of course, he had to. "Damn it, Bobby. How the hell are we going to baby proof this house?"

Bobby shrugged. "I could build a pen to put him in…"

"This is Dean we're talking about…he'll just figure out a way to escape." Sam frowned. "At least we managed to get him through the night in one piece."

"Until he decided to climb Mt. Sam and fell off the edge." Bobby chortled.

Sam didn't find it all that funny. "I should have just let him sleep in the bed with me." Of course, then he'd probably get no rest at all, and since he'd only had about three hours sleep in the twenty-four hours prior to finding the witch who'd turned Dean, and then no sleep after that…well, he'd needed at least _some_ rest. Because his brother, even when an adult, could leech a body dry of energy. And toddler-Dean was a black hole of energy sucking...energy. "We're so fucked."

"There might be someone we can ask to babysit your brother until we get him de-hexed. Or at least get an escape proof Dean-pen built."

"Who? _You_ know a nanny?" Sam realized he was rubbing Dean's small back and rocking slightly. He made himself stop. This parenting thing was creepy. It was all instinct—he'd had no real role models to speak of, other than the one given to him by the very person he was now parenting, and that was even creepier. "Or are you thinking of a teenage girl? Honestly, Bobby, I don't think I'd be comfortable letting some kid watch…" _My kid. Shit. _

The coffee maker hissed and gurgled on the counter, signaling the brewing cycle completed. Bobby stood up, poured two mugs full and placed one of them on the table in front of Sam. He reached for it then pushed the scalding coffee out of Dean's reach, realizing what he'd done only after the action was completed. This sucked. He was turning into Mr. Mom, and when he met Bobby's gaze with his own, he realized the older hunter could see him turning, too.

Wisely, Bobby didn't comment on Sam's transition from brother to mother of the other brother. Instead, he said, "No. No teens. For one thing, if Dean suddenly changes back to—well, _Dean_—while a civilian is watching him, I'm not sure how we'd explain it. Especially since he'll rip out of his onesie and nappie in about two seconds flat and be standing in the middle of the room, a bare-assed, full grown naked man. And wouldn't _that_ cause a problem?" Bobby turned back to the counter. Sam heard the scrape of a butter knife against toast, and then the sound of the knife against a cutting board.

He tried not to think about big Dean and his little Dean (the other one, the one that did all his perverted brother's thinking for him) and a teen all in the same room together. _Yerg._ He shuddered and repositioned the toddler on his shoulder, wincing when he tugged at a hank of his hair.

In a moment, Bobby returned to the table with a small plate piled high with Dean-sized toast squares. He put it down in front of Sam, but close enough for his little big brother to reach. "Here you go, lil' buddy. All nice and buttery for ya."

_Ha._ So he wasn't the _only_ one Mommy-ing up. Sam smiled, plucked a tiny toast square from the plate and offered it to his brother. Dean pulled his thumb from his mouth with a popping noise and sat up so fast, the top of his head banged Sam in the chin. "Damn it, Dean! That's gonna leave a bruise!" Sam rubbed at his jawline.

"Oo dot's a booboo? Aw. I tiss bettah. Mwah." Dean pressed his soft, warm, _open_ mouth to the place Sam touched on his chin, leaving a spot of spit. "All bettah, Dam!" He patted him on the cheek; the thumb-sucker's hand was saliva-juicy, too. "Okay?"

"Aw, isn't that cutest crap on the effin' planet," Bobby gushed in a choked voice. "I don't know if I should squee or puke."

Sam shook his head. He didn't know, either. Either way, his face was half-drenched with Dean spit. He shrugged and handed the toast square to the boy, choosing to ignore the sliming. "Say 'thank you' to Bobby for the toast," he murmered. At the very least, he decided, he could teach Dean some manners.

"Mm! Toat!" Dean took the toast from Sam's fingers and nibbled on it. He paused, then announced, "Dee wikes toat. T'ank you, Booby."

"Very nice, Dean." Of course he'd call Bobby _Booby_. Could they expect any less? Really, Dean was nothing more than a walking cliche. They might as well be trapped in a bad fanfic. Sam sighed and turned his attention back to _Booby_. "So, if there are no teens and no little old ladies looking to babysit, who do you have in mind?"

"Someone who doesn't need to sleep, for one."

0-0-0-0-0-0

_Our Cas, who art in…some pan-dimensional plane which may or may not, in fact, be Heaven, hallowed be thy name. I think._ _Unless you've decided to call yourself something besides Cas, in which case hallowed be that name, instead._ A loud thud made Sam spin in his chair to look over his shoulder; he realized Dean had knocked over the tower of books he'd been busily constructing. Undaunted, the boy began building the leaning tower of occult literature once more. Sam re-assumed the appropriate hunch of worship, hands clasped, head lowered, eyes squeezed shut, and he resumed beseeching Cas to come and be their babysitter.

_Cas, we've got a situation here._ _It's Dean—_

A rustle of wings and a whoosh of air announced the angel's presence. Sam opened his eyes to see Castiel, angel of the Lord and stand-in deity standing beside Dean and staring down at him with a puzzled expression. If Sam was able to meme it, he realized, the caption would say, _WTF. Dean?_

_Ah well._ "Thanks for coming, Cas." Sam figured starting with an attitude of thankfulness would only work in their favor.

The angel turned to look at Sam, brow furrowed. "Dean has become…diminutive."

"That's one way to put it. Yeah." Sam nodded. "He was hexed."

Cas peered at the boy once more. He wrinkled his nose. "He smells bad."

Dean needed to be changed. No wonder he'd left Sam alone to pray for help. He'd been busy doing more than building with books. Sam made a mental note for the future: _Quiet Dean=pooping Dean_. "Yeah. That's why I called you." He stood.

"You want me to make him smell better?"

"Well, no, actually. Bobby and I were wondering if you could watch him for a while. While we figure out how to get him back to normal."

The angel tilted his head. "Watch him do what?"

"Well…whatever he does. We need someone to keep him out of trouble and safe for a while. Someone to feed him and change him—"

"Change him? _Into_ what?"

"Change his diapers," Sam amended.

Cas frowned, genuinely perplexed. "What else do you want his diapers to be?"

"Cas. Focus. We're in a real bind, here. Can you help us? Dean needs a sitter."

"Sam, I am currently waging a war in—oh! Hello, Dean." Cas startled when Dean suddenly noticed him and hurried over to wrap his arms around the angel's thigh. "Why is he squeezing my leg like that?"

"He likes you, I guess. He doesn't remember much of anything from…before, but he seems to recognize us. Me. Bobby. And now, you. Either that, or he's just a really friendly kid." Which was, Sam realized, scarier than anything. If they couldn't make Dean return to his former self, he would be the kind of child easily lured into a stranger's car, or worse. He'd need to learn not to be so trusting, and learn—to be a hunter.

Sam frowned. He didn't want to think about that, now. "Look, if I clean him up, will you keep an eye on him so Bobby and I can research his hex? Hopefully, it will only take a few hours." He appealed to the power of Dean and Cas's _profound bond_. "I don't trust anyone else to protect him."

Cas shook his leg, but Dean didn't budge. "I suppose I have to stay, now. I can't seem to get him off of me."

"Good." Sam realized too late that Cas could, in fact, just blast the boy off in a show of heavenly power. Not that the angel would deliberately hurt his brother, but still… "Dean. Let go of Cas, and let me change your diaper."

Dean looked up at the angel and beamed. "No. Dee wuv 'Ass."

_Of course you do. _Sam wondered once again if they were trapped in some fan-girl's squicked out fanfic. In their lives, he supposed, anything was possible. "Yes, I know you love Cas, but you stink. So—"

"_My_ 'Ass. No 'tink."

_In your dreams, kiddo._

Sam heard Cas hiss as Dean tightened his grip. Figures his brother would decide to be like this about the angel. That damned bond went both ways. Sam sighed. "All right. Fine. Cas, I'll change him when he decides to…unattach from you. I'll be in the library with Bobby; just come get me when he lets go of you."

"All right, Sam." Cas shook his leg again. "Dean. Please release my vessel."

It struck Sam that Dean usually referred to Cas as a big baby in a trenchcoat; he wondered how his brother would have responded to this had he seen it for himself. The angel might be a fairly useless in the human realm, but at least he didn't smell like shit.

Easy enough fix, really. Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped a quick pic of the pair of them for later. Because when Dean regained his adult form, Sam was never going to let him live this down. And he _would_ make a meme of it, too. He'd call it: _Dean, why are you humping my leg?_

0-0-0-0-0

"So you're saying this witch sucked time out of her victims, to keep herself young?" Bobby stood near an overloaded bookcase, a grimoire in his hands.

"Yep." Sam nodded.

"Not unheard of. Fairly common, in fact. As far as witches go. They tend to go to extremes when it comes to looking youthful." Bobby closed the book with a snap and tried to find a spot for it on his shelves. "My question is, then—why'd she turn it on Dean?"

"My question is-'why not just hire a plastic surgeon'?"

Bobby frowned. "Seriously. Have you seen what happens to people who have too much plastic intervention? They end up with their eyelids on the sides of their heads. This looks natural, at least."

As usual, Bobby was right. Sam shrugged. "Sucks to be the donor, though."

"Sucks to be sucked," Bobby said, giving up to drop the book on a nearby table. "You're right. So it's really not a case of why, or why Dean, it's more a case of what exactly we need to do to fix it."

"Couldn't we just gank her and get it over with?"

"You'd think so. But if it were that easy…just imagine what would happen if all you had to do to undo a spell is kack its maker. We'd have spells popping off undone all over the place every time a witch bought it, and what a mess _that_ would make."

Sam nodded. As usual, Bobby was right, and he put the whole thing in terms anyone could understand.

Bobby continued, "This isn't a damn hex bag you can root out and destroy, either. It's a spell. A complex one." He dropped into the closest chair. "You gotta understand. A good spell is like a piece of weaving. You have to undo it thread by thread to get the thing apart. And you gotta know where the beginning and ending threads are."

"In other words…"

"Unless we find that witch and her spell book, we're pretty much fucked."

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ A sense of doom dropped over Sam like a blanket. "As soon as she turned Dean from an adult to a child, she disappeared. And I'll be honest, Bobby—I was so freaked out with having a toddler-sized brother to deal with, I wasn't thinking straight. She could be anywhere by now."

"We're just gonna have to keep our ears to the ground and see what happens. She'll turn up again eventually, and now that we know her M.O., we'll be more aware of where and when she strikes next."

"Dean and I figured she picks a vic every six weeks or so. That's how long it takes for her to lose her juice and grow old again-" An idea struck Sam and Bobby at the same time, because the older hunter interrupted Sam to say,

"—but since she only got a piece of Dean and not all of his life energy, she's gonna need to strike again sooner than that."

"Right." Sam made a notation in his journal. "We just need to compute how much energy she gets from her usual life hit and minus eighteen months—or so—from that." He pursed his lips as he realized he'd need to figure out exactly how old Dean was, too, if he wanted his calculations to be accurate so they could catch her before she killed again. If he could. Otherwise, it would mean another innocent victim.

He felt like such a failure. "If I'd only gotten to her, Bobby. She turned and saw me coming, and then…I felt the air around me change, could feel her getting ready to suck the life out of me, and then Dean threw himself at her and got some of the blast, instead."

In his mind's eye, he could see it with terrible clarity. One minute, Dean was-well, himself—and the next, it was if he was melting, sliding backwards and into himself, twisting and turning, roiling and rolling, growing smaller and smaller. His screaming was even worse—his deep, gravelly voice growing higher and higher pitched, more and more frantic and more frightened until it was just a child's terrified cry. Sam had looked up from his brother to see the witch give him a satisfied half-smile and a cocky wave—and then vanish.

_Bitch._ He'd wanted to kill her, to feel the knife slip into her heart and feel its final thump as life left her body. But in that moment, the only thing he could do was pick up the screaming child—his brother—and hug him close.

"Sam." Cas' rumbling voice broke into his recollection and he looked up to see the angel standing beside him. Dean would usually mumble something about personal space at the angel's proximity, but right now Sam felt comforted from Cas' presence, even though the angel appeared more pensive than usual. "Dean's saying something about wheels and…'da fish'? And he appears to have sprung a leak of some kind." Cas gestured to a long, dark spot on the leg of his pants.

"Ah. Yeah. He means goldfish crackers. As for the leak-he's way overdue for a clean diaper. But now that he's let you go we can fix that, no problem. Come on, Cas. I'll show you how." Sam got up, his gaze meeting Bobby's; he wasn't surprised to see amusement in the older hunter's eyes. "I'll see if we can distract him from Wheels." A thought struck him. "Can you sing?"

"I am not a member of my Father's heavenly choir, but I have been known to harmonize. Why?" Cas fell into step behind him as they left the room.

"Well, see if you can sing this…" Sam stopped, turned and lifted the angel's hands into the proper configuration. "Do you like itsy bitsy spiders?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: Grave apologies to Nick, Jr. and all their wonderful programs. Without you, I never would have been able to clean the bathroom/cook dinner/drool at the Winchester brothers when my children were younger. On the other hand, I will never watch any of your programs ever again, unless I'm tied up and being tortured and am unable to chew through my own neck._

* * *

THREE

"This is…revolting." Cas peered down at Dean, who lay bare-assed and wiggly with excitement on a towel on one of the guest beds. "Are you sure it isn't an invasion of Dean's personal space? He doesn't like me to be too close to him. In the past, my proximity appeared to anger him."

Sam clenched his teeth as he swiped Dean's nether regions with a fresh wipe. "We have to make sure all…crevices and, um..._whatever_ are cleaned. Otherwise, he'll get a rash. Or worse." The hard part was not looking too closely at what he was doing, despite the necessity for it. Because toddler-aged or not, Dean's personal bits were the last things Sam wanted—or needed—to consider. Never mind wipe.

"His—what I believe adult-Dean would refer to as his 'junk'—appears to be engorged." The angel inspected Dean closely, with no embarrassment or understanding of his inappropriate curiosity.

Sam turned and glared at Cas. "Dude! Don't look at his junk! He's just a baby!"

The angel stared back, befuddled. "But if I don't look at it, how can I clean it?"

"I don't know." Sam turned back and tried to finish wiping Dean's ass without looking. "Just...don't look."

"Can I look at it when he becomes an adult again?"

As if adult Dean would ever allow _that_ to happen. Sam had shared small spaces, awkward situations and skanky motel bathrooms with his brother for years and rarely saw a flash of his _magic member_, or _velvet luv rod_, or whatever he called it. Thank God and all the benevolent beings in the universe for that miracle. And they'd be serving ice cream sundaes in Hell before Cas ever saw it again. "Whatever floats your boat."

"I don't have a boat," Cas muttered.

On the bed, Dean made a happy noise, pressed his heels into the mattress and lifted his pelvis high. "Ass! Eesy bee spidah! A'din."

The angel leaned close once more. "When we've completed this task, Dean. Then I will sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider for—_oh_!" Cas emitted a high-pitched screech; somewhere in Bobby's house, something made of glass shattered. "Sam! Dean is invading his _own _personal space!"

"Yeah, he does that. Even at this young age..." Sam plucked Dean's small hand from his—_ha! tiny_—"magic member" and slid a new diaper under his brother's behind. He lifted the front into place, moved Dean's hand—again—and taped the diaper firmly shut. Then he hurriedly slipped a new pair of pants onto his waist and snapped the legs closed. _There. Done._ And _this_ time, he thought with satisfaction, Dean didn't have a chance to pee in his face.

"Ha. I am the diaper master!" Sam cheered for himself. "And now…back to you, Cas." He scooped Dean up and handed him off to the God-elect. "He's all yours."

"Of course _all_ of him is mine. I don't want him in parts, Sam." Cas held Dean at arm's length. "What am I expected to do with him?"

"Take him out into the yard. Maybe you can take him for a walk or something. Just—stay close. He's not warded."

"I will protect you, Dean. No harm will befall you," Cas vowed, and pulled Dean closer to his body. They studied each other face-to-face, boy-to-angel.

"Ass!" Dean crowed with joy, and head-butted Cas in the nose.

Blood spurted down the angel's face and onto his white shirt. To his credit, the up-and-coming deity didn't drop the boy or even fling him halfway across the universe in a spite-smite. Instead, he gently lowered Dean to the ground; the toddler stood on Cas' feet and clutched his knees in a loving death hold.

Sam grabbed a fresh dry diaper and held it up to Cas' face to catch the thick red drops gushing from his nose.

"Dat feews vewy unpweasant," the angel honked as tears rolled down his cheeks. "I dink Dee inbaded _by_ bersonal space."

"Dude, I think he broke your nose."

"We share a bewy bwofoun' bond," Cas insisted.

"Wuv oo, Ass," Dean purred, and head-butted the angel in the groin.

0-0-0-0-0

Sam peered out the window at Cas and Dean. Despite his injuries—and somewhat higher voice—the angel of the former Lord had taken Dean outside. Now they were squatting, peering intently at something on the ground between them. Cas reached out to pick it up; a worm dangled from between his fingers, twisting and twirling in a frantic effort to get away. Dean poked at it with his index finger, said something, then lifted a small stick from the ground and jabbed at the squirming creature. Fortunately (for the worm), he missed and poked Cas in the face, instead.

Sam held his breath, but Cas appeared to recover quickly, and his little older brother remained un-smited.

The angel tilted his head, then appeared to place the worm above his upper lip…

Sam shuddered and turned back to his laptop. With nothing left to do for the moment except wait for the witch to suck again, he'd decided to research the next matter at hand: eighteen-month-old children. Because as far as he could predict, Dean was stuck in that age for at least another four long weeks. They might as well get used to it. Or, in Cas' case, they might as well get protective gear.

Sam went to some parenting sites to make a few notes:

_1.__Toilet training: possible—though not recommended._ That sucked almost as badly as the witch.

_2.__Puzzles and other tests of dexterity-good. _He wondered if something like Legos would be a good choice, and made another notation. _Buy Legos._

_3.__Allow Dean to try small things to experience personal success, like choosing own clothes and being allowed to dress self-highly encouraged. _Need more clothes. **Get diapers!**

_4.__Things fostering/enabling gross motor development—very important. Note to self: explains Dean's desire to swing from shelves._

_5. Encouraged: p__ositive interactions with other same-aged children. __Look for local playgrounds/playgroups. Poss. the library? Children's museum? Note: parallel play with peers is considered the norm._

Another peek out the window showed him Dean, with a large stick in hand, running after Cas, who was running away. That wasn't exactly parallel play, but beating an angel with a tree limb _did_ count as gross motor activity, and it upped the Hunter skills besides, so ultimately, Sam supposed, it wasn't a exactly a bad thing.

Still…he turned back to his laptop to check another site and added the cost of used adult hockey goalie pads (including helmet with face mask) to his list.

The sound of feet thundered up onto the porch, and the door crashed open. Cas entered the house first, his muddied hair messier than usual, his tie askew, grass, blood, and mud stains adorning his normally pristine trench coat. There was a dirt smear under his nose—from his worm 'stache, probably.

On Cas' heels trooped Dean, covered head to toe in brown stuff Sam hoped was only mud. The side snaps of his pants were undone, giving him the appearance of a child in a floor-length skirt, but he'd retained his diaper and showed no cuts or bruises. Overall, it appeared, he'd had fun and remained poop-free.

"Sam," Cas intoned. "Dean and I are done in the yard, and now we require some duice and what is known as a 'kwahkah'."

"I'm on it." Sam got up and went to the kitchen where he'd stored the food he'd bought about an hour earlier. While Cas had watched Dean (and Bobby had watched Cas watching Dean because they'd decided the angel/toddler combination was potentially a twisted mash-up of the blind watching the blind/fox leading the chickens requiring at least _some_ human adult supervision), Sam had gone to the market and stocked up on what one website called, "Toddler Essentials". Goldfish crackers, cheese, grapes (which he'd have to cut into pieces), graham cracker teddy bears and "any food which can be manipulated by small fingers", along with canned raviolis, macaroni and cheese, and bananas. It struck him that most of the foods preferred by and recommended for toddlers were a color variant of yellow.

Which was ironic—so were most of the foods and beverages preferred by adult Dean: beer, cheese burgers and junk food. And potentially pie, unless it was chocolate cream or cherry.

He poured some fish crackers into a tiny plastic dish and got down the special sippy cup he'd bought for his brother. It had rainbow-colored doggies on it. He filled it with apple juice and then, after a moment's thought, he shrugged and got the one with rainbow kitties on it for the angel. He doubted Cas would use it, but then again…it didn't hurt to be polite. Sam carried the snacks and juice to the living room.

As he did, Dean climbed onto the couch and Cas—after a moment's hesitation (perhaps driven by fear)—dropped down beside the boy. They looked at Sam expectantly. He passed out the snacks and drinks, then picked up the remote and turned to Bobby's television, where he flicked through the stations until arriving at a cluster of children's shows. He put the program guide on, so he'd know what the heck they were watching, and turned to look at the pair on the couch.

Dean lay propped against Cas, the fingers of one hand twined in the angel's hair, the thumb of the other hand in his mouth. A stray, uneaten goldfish swam alone beside him on the couch cushion. Cas, slouched sideways against the back of the couch and its arm, looked exhausted as he sucked at the spout of the sippy cup cap. Every few seconds he winced as Dean gave a particularly sharp tug at his hair but neither of them moved. Instead, they stared at the television screen, unblinking and wide-eyed.

"You guys want to watch Dora?"

"No," they chorused around respective thumb and sippy cup cap.

"Bubble Guppies?"

"No."

"Fresh Beat Band?"

"_Thhpt_!" Dean raspberried despite his thumb. Sam wasn't surprised to see Cas' sippy cup fly across the room at the same time.

"Mike the Knight?"

Silence.

He looked over to see them staring, entranced by the cartoon kid with the armor and sword. Considering what they were—or had been, especially in Dean's case—the choice made sense. He dropped the remote on a side table. "Knock yourselves out, guys."

When he checked in again a few minutes' later, both Dean and the angel who didn't require sleep were napping together on the couch. Dean snored softly; Cas grunted softly whenever the boy tugged at his hair. Speckles of dried mud drifted to shoulders of his trenchcoat whenever Dean twisted too hard. Sam called Bobby into the room to see them.

"Awww…a boy and his angel," Bobby cooed with his usual caustic glee. "Isn't that just the frickin' cutest thing? 'Scuse me while I spew."

Sam just grinned and took a pic to save for later.

* * *

_I'm with Booby. This is just too friggin' cute. But anyone who knows anything about small children knows the cute only exists to disarm the adult Spidey-sense of doom while they're planning something truly diabolical. And you thought I'd forgotten to finish up with a hook. Bwahahahaha..._

_Please don't forget to review; I'm fascinated by the fact I can check my stats, see graphs of hits and—_gasp!_—discover that real people have really read my story! It's very encouraging and it gives me the will to write on. And on…and on…_

_ Oh, and incidentally, (in case you're wondering) when he was a baby my youngest son (now age seven) used to do the same thing to my hair that Dean's doing to Cas' hair. (Actually, he still does it, especially when he's sick or overtired. Or fearful of the zombie apocalypse, as he was the other night. Go figure.) Anyway, sometimes it does feel like he's going to pull my hair out by the roots, but generally speaking, it's just as relaxing for the recipient when someone rhythmically strokes their hair...can you feel it?...yeah...it's...just like...zzzzzzzzz._


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note: Don't be getting all used to this quick update thing. I'm going back to work in the salt mines tomorrow. (Waaaaaaah! No! Don' wanna gooooo!) _

_It probably won't be until at least Friday until I update again. 'Cause you know I'll be busy watching television-at least for an hour-tomorrow (Tuesday) night. And then, obsessively checking the fan boards/twitter/FB, etc. to see how everyone else feels about episode...whatever it is. Eleven? Twelve? I dunno. All I do know is-it's Dean! And Crowley! Together! Whoop, whoop! (Tell me, did your heart break when you saw those pretty green eyes all woobie and sad last week? And did you think, "No! Not the antique art deco lamp!? Anything but that!")_

_Sorry. I got excited. Please excuse me. Anyhow, here you go. I have to say, writing this story has been pretty cathartic. Tell me, Trapped At Home Mommies of Toddlers, does Sam's angst echo your own? Heh. I thought so..._

_Please feed the Muse, and review! (Thank you.)_

* * *

**FOUR**

"Mmm. P'akes!"

One week later, life had become a series of routines.

As he'd been every morning for the past six days, Dean was semi-contained on a booster seat buckled to a dining room chair and settled at the far end of the table away from anything breakable and/or spillable. Dean himself was bungee corded to the seat and the chair because, of course, he was Dean. Or, as Bobby put it, "Kid could escape from Guantanamo with a spork and a butter packet."

Which was true, and, in fact, the bungee cords didn't stop the boy from getting away and into mischief. But they were a delaying tactic and gave Sam, Bobby, and Cas a chance to turn around and at least pour a mug of coffee. (Or, in Cas' case, a sippy cup of appa duice.)

They'd learned that putting food on the table before buckling and bungeeing the boy in guaranteed them a moment to shove at least a bite of something in their own mouths.

And pancakes were worth a whole five minutes of blissful peace.

In an additional coup, Sam had procured a small fork for Dean, and if his brother wasn't overtired, spearing tiny bits of food on its dull prongs occupied him for quite a while. Enough time to gulp down your coffee and maybe—if Cas or whoever was in charge up there—smiled down upon you, allow you to pour another.

Since Cas had pretty much taken up permanent residence with them, however, Sam wasn't sure who was running the show in Heaven. Lesser angels, mostly, Cas had muttered when pressed.

Sam was starting to realize that Heaven was a lot like a major corporation here on earth. The upper hierarchy held long meetings where they sat around, talked vague strategies and ordered a nice catered lunch that lasted an hour and a half; the actual day-to-day nuts and bolts running of the company was on the shoulders of the grunts who gulped down stale peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and dried-out carrot sticks at their desks because you couldn't do much with a half hour out of eight.

Since Cas was now a part of upper-management, Sam didn't feel too bad for him anymore when Dean head butted his vessel in the jewels—also a part of their routine. It happened at least twice a day and always—after it happened—he would think, "I should have seen that coming" but never did.

The protective cup he'd ordered for Cas was expected any day, though, so there were brighter days ahead. At least, for the angel who'd developed a possibly permanent, protective, hunched-over- with-hand- hovering-over-his-package posture whenever he was on Dean duty. Most mornings found him putting in some face time with the heavenly host, however; he'd be down among the mortals—and the Winchesters, who were somewhat mortal, more often immortal with side trips into Hell or Purgatory—in time for Mike the Knight and a few Teddy Grahams before Dean's morning nap.

"Dee wikes p'akes. More pwease." His brother chirped from his bungee booster, bringing Sam out of his reverie. He straightened from his slouch against the corner and spatula-ed up another pancake.

"Here you go, buddy." He put it on the plate.

"Syrup!" Dean pointed at the bottle on the counter.

"Yes…I'll do that. No, let me cut it first." Sam knew cutting the pancake into perfectly symmetrical squares wasn't possible, though he really felt compelled to try.

"Syrup!" Dean poked at the plate.

"Yes, Dean. I'll put syrup on it in a second." Every morning, it was the same thing—ragged pieces of shredded carbs pretending to be breakfast food. But a tidy looking plate would have been more appetizing. Sam kept cutting. Maybe this morning would be the day…

"Dee. Wikes. SYRUP!"

"God's tits. Give the kid some syrup before he snaps a bungee, will ya'?" Bobby hurried in from the other room and grabbed the bottle; he shouldered Sam away from Dean's plate, pouring maple-flavored "product" at the same time, and spun the plate to land in front of the toddler. "Here, Dean. Bon appetite."

Sam sighed. "Sorry, Booby."

"And don't call me that," the older hunter snapped. "You got any plans today?"

"Not really. Why, you got a hunt?" _Thank God. Cas. Whoever._ Sam was aching to get out of the house, to do anything but pour kwakahs, and duice, or change potentially radioactive diapers, or wash, dry and fold the same tiny outfits over and over and over and over again, just so they could get dirty all over and over and over again-

"No. But can you pick up those friggin' Rescue Heros? I came down during the night to get a glass of warm milk—"

"Warm milk? Seriously?"

"It's soothing! I get heartburn. I'm old and—oh, shaddup!" Bobby barked. "I accidentally kicked that godforsaken firetruck and it went off. Thought I was going to have a heart attack. _And_ I almost broke my toe."

"Sorry, Bobby." The thought of picking up the toys—again-made Sam want to go into a corner, curl into a ball, and rock.

"And who the hell thinks it's a good idea to make a friggin' firetruck talk? You ask me, that's a monster. You and me encounter a chatty firetruck, we're gankin' it right there, but these toy company execs-"

A clatter from behind them made them spin around in a panic, but all that had happened was that Dean had decided to wear his plateful of pancakes for a hat.

"Balls!" Bobby said. "I just washed the floor yesterday. Maple syrup is worse than ectoplasm. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get rid of the sticky?

A slim hope rose in Sam's breast. "I'll wash the floor if you want to give Dean a bath-"

Bobby glared, his nostrils distended. "What, do you think I was born yesterday? No freaking way. You do the bath. And clean up the puddles this time, willya? I almost broke a hip last time—slid halfway across the floor and ended up bass over teakettle in the tub. Pulled the shower curtain down, too!"

Sam sighed and unbungeed his sticky brother from his chair. Yes, they'd developed routines. But that didn't mean he had to like them.

He carried the boy up the stairs, holding him at arms' length so that he didn't get syruped. Much. Dean peered over his shoulder at the steps. "Me cwimb?"

"No."

"Me do it."

"No."

"Me do."

"No! And look, we're here at the bathroom anyway, so it's a moot point." He slammed the door shut with his foot and put the boy down in the middle of the floor. "C'mon, let's get you out of these sticky jammies." Sam knelt to undo the zipper.

"Me do." Dean put his sticky hands over Sam's.

Sam sighed. Allowing Dean to try small things to succeed, like dressing himself, may have been highly encouraged, but at this point, Sam was highly encouraged to give whoever thought of said advice a five minute swirly.

He leaned back and bit his lip, waiting while his brother fumbled with the zipper. It took several minutes but finally, the jammies were opened and Dean could do the thing he'd already perfected by his second day as a toddler. Strip naked.

He flung his diaper over his shoulder; it hit the wall with a wet splat and slid down behind the huge antique claw foot tub. Then he raised his arms over his head and shouted with joy. "Pudding!" Apparently—and predictably—this was the one thing he retained from his adult life.

"Yay." Sam groaned and stood to start the bath. This in itself was a delicate procedure. Because there were two taps, and they were usually filled with air, the pipes banged and rattled before water came out and then it was a matter of waiting for Bobby's geriatric water heater to give up the goods. Getting just the right temperature of was like some kind of chemistry experiment. But finally, lukewarm and toddler-skin safe water flowed. Sam put the plug in the drain and turned to pick up Dean.

And he was gone.

"Oh, shit." Sam strode out the opened door, but a quick look up and down the hall revealed no Dean. "Bobby! Do you hear Dean down there?" he called down the stairs.

The older hunter peered up at him. "No. He's not up there with you?"

"I don't know. I can't hear him but I haven't really looked, yet. He escaped."

"Balls!" Bobby scowled. "All right, you check up there and I'll check down here. Let me know when you find him."

Sam turned to go but then remembered at the last minute. "Wait! Bobby!"

"What?"

"He's naked."

"You idjit. He's gonna pee on my rugs!"

Or worse. Sam hurried to find his brother.

* * *

Seems to me it's a good time to call in for backup...what do you think? Should Sam call in our beloved, battered angel? Or try to find Dean on his own? And...what do you think Dean's been doing while Sam was being OCD about the tub? Good thing Bobby doesn't own a cat. You _know_ Dean would be taste testing some kitty crunchies or building a sand pit for his monster trucks. (Gag. Gag! But so typical...) What other mayhem do you predict for our little green-eyed boy? Please review and let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's note: this is a bit of a departure from the previous chapters. There's a bit more angst on Dam and Booby's part (because toddlers will do that to you) and a change in point of view. But after that, things settle back to somewhat normal and I can return you to your regularly schedule program. More or less. Though I think if Bobby were here he'd tell you not to hurl. Anyhow, my point is__—hang tight and hang tough.  
_

_Many thanks to those who have stopped in, followed, faved, and reviewed. You make my Muse (aka Plot Bunny) very happy. Keep it coming! I'm__—I mean, _she's_—a greedy bitch._

* * *

**FIVE**

"Dean!" Sam knew his voice sounded hoarser and more frantic than usual. But his heart pounded in his throat, and he could barely breathe through the panic.

It was bad enough that Dean caused mischief, but there were weapons in the house, ones that they may have overlooked in their initial "crap, Dean is a toddler" sweep of the house because they'd _always_ been there. They didn't clean them, sharpen them, didn't even see them anymore. Knives and scythes and daggers...

Sam threw open doors and sprawled on his belly looking under anything with a space small enough to contain a little boy. Under tables and beds, beside beds, in cupboards and closets, on top of shelves and dressers and wardrobes, behind long, dusty, olive drab and orange paisley drapes which hadn't been changed or washed since 1975 or whenever Karen Singer had originally hung them—he looked everywhere. "Dean! Deaaaan!"

_No where. _

Dean was gone.

_Or…dead._

Sam started to search again. _Leave no corner, no area, unobserved. Don't hurry through, don't be panicked. Take your time. Panic makes you miss things. _

Like…the tilt of a gauzy curtain as it wafted gently in the breeze of an open window.

Sam stared at the curtain in horror. The window was open in Bobby's bedroom? And not the top window, as he'd exhorted Bobby to use, but the usual bottom window, the one near the sill.

The one Dean could reach and climb—and fall—out of.

_Dean._

He didn't want to think about it. "Bobby?" Sam called over his shoulder. "Did you find him? Is he with you?" _Please. Please say 'yes'. Please tell me you found him, crapping on the carpet or pouring syrup on my laptop or_—

Sound of footsteps as Bobby clambered up the stairs, hurried, clumsy, just as panicked. "No! No, I couldn't find…him. Oh, balls." He stopped in the doorway and stared at the same window Sam watched.

"I can't look. I can't," Sam whispered. His feet were nailed to the floor. His heart was going to leave his throat and erupt from his body in a torrent of vomit. His brother was going to be lying on the ground beneath the second floor window, a broken little boy, and amidst all the terrors and horrors he'd seen during the course of his entire screwed up life, that would be the worst sight of all. "Can—can you do it?"

"Okay," Bobby said softly. He moved slowly, and Sam knew it was because he was afraid of what he'd see, too.

Suddenly, Sam's legs gave way. All strength gone, jello-like…whatever the clichés were, he didn't care. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, afraid to watch Bobby's face, unable to look away. _Dean. I'm so sorry. I failed you, I failed, I failed…_

Bobby peered out the window to the ground below, gripped the sill with whitening knuckles. Then he looked back at Sam. "He's not there."

"What?" Relief flooded him, but he remained on the floor like the boneless thing he felt like. Dean wasn't dead. At least, not there on the ground. But…"Where the fuck is he, Bobby?"

"Call Cas," Bobby said. "Right now."

Sam was about to tell Bobby that Cas was supposed to be busy this morning—or whatever, however time passed in the dimension he normally inhabited—but the older man was right. Celestial affairs needed to be put on hold for his brother. As always. It occurred to him that he was actually quite pissed at Dean for this stunt, that he wanted to choke him, the arrogant little fucker, but then he'd never seen him again and there was nothing more he wanted to do in the whole world but hug his brother tightly against his body and never, ever let him go. At least, until he was an adult again and struggling and screaming, "no chick flick moments, Francis!" But currently, Dean was just a baby—Sam's baby—and his problem and responsibility, and it was Sam's fault he was missing. "Cas…Cas, I hope you have your ears on, because we've got a problem here, and Dean needs you."

_Nothing._ Sam had thought mentioning Dean would do the trick, but the angel didn't appear in his usual whoosh and poof. He tried again. "Cas, you know we are thankful for whatever you do and we know that you're very busy running Heaven and the Host and all that. But Dean is missing and we don't know where to look for him. We're afraid…"

_We're afraid…afraid…_a thought occurred to him, one that he'd buried so deeply under a pile of _we-won't-even-consider-this-a-possibility_ that he never thought it could happen. Sam scrambled to his feet in a rush of adrenaline. "Bobby, if he went outside a demon could have snatched him! He's not warded!"

"Aw hell," Bobby said in agreement. The two men thundered down the hall and down the stairs to the porch. "I didn't look outside because I never heard the door open and shut, and the doors were closed anyway—I figured if he'd streaked outside he wouldn't bother closely the door quietly behind him!"

But Sam knew—a demon would close the door just to throw them off the chase. He practically flew off the porch and ran outside. As he looked up and down the rows of rusted out junk cars spreading out from the house in either and all directions, he realized he still didn't know _where_ to look for Dean. He could be anywhere in there—he could be anywhere in the universe for that matter. For a second time, his legs gave out. Sam pulled at his own hair. "What the fuck, Bobby? What do we do?"

"We put the word out," Bobby decided. "I don't give a flying rat's furry fucking ass how embarrassed he's gonna be when every hunter in the known world discovers Dean Winchester's been zapped back to Romper Stomper age, we're putting out an APB for the little shit."

Sam nodded, his eyes were full of sudden tears. He didn't care. There was only one thing that was important—finding his brother. He swiped at them with the heels of his hands. _Man up, Francis!,_ he could almost hear adult Dean grouching at him. "We should probably notify the police, too."

Bobby winced. "Well, yeah, there's them, too. Fat lot o'good those monkeys'll do, but they can't hurt, in the long run." He pulled one of his phones out of his pocket. "I'll contact Jody and let her do her thing."

_Cas, Cas…where the fuck are you, Cas? Dean! Dean is missing. Why can't you hear me? Why don't you answer?_

_0-0-0-0-0_

Dean Winchester was a difficult human being. Crowley knew that. But he also knew that Dean was the perfect man for his purposes.

He'd made such a lovely demon during his short time as a torturer in Hell (short for Crowley and Alastair and the rest, long for Dean—ah well, such was Eternal Life, after all). And here he was—un-warded and untrained and full of potential. Because Dean had it in him, the proven ability to be a leader—fearless, one who did what he was told and didn't question authority. Crowley had always admired the way he'd blindly followed his father's orders all those years. The man was a command-following machine.

Crowley saw Dean's diminunization as an opportunity to raise him up as the perfect general to lead his army into sure and total victory over the heavenly hoard. It would be simple to train him to be a Demon Extraordinaire, an Angel Hunter, a Killer with Skill. Because honestly, most of his crew were a bunch of mooks.

He carried the small boy into his office and shut the door. First order of business, some clothes for the young man. He bent over his intercom and called his assistant into the room.

She sauntered in—she always sauntered, it was part of her charm—but when she spotted Dean standing there with his thumb in his mouth and his—well, for lack of a better term, _winky_—in his hand, she stopped short and stared. "Is that—it's—Oh my God! It's Dean Winchester!"

"Watch your mouth, and yes, it _is_ Dean Winchester. My _son_, Dean Winchester."

"Your…son?" She raised an eyebrow.

"He is now. And he needs some…things."

"He does?" She didn't lift her eyes from the small boy, who stared back at her and furrowed his little brow.

"Clothes and such. And some lunch, too, please. Entrails if we've got them. Fresh!"

"Yes sir." She didn't turn to leave, but slowly backed to the door, never taking her gaze from Crowley's latest acquisition. "He's what…about eighteen months?"

"How the hell should I know?" Crowley scowled. It made no difference in the great scheme of things how old the boy was. All that mattered was that he was, and he was here, and he was _his_.

She shrugged and then, with one last startled blink at the boy, left the room.

It was impossible to find good help nowadays.

He settled into the chair behind his large desk and fired up his computer while reaching for the paperwork at the top of his inbox. In typical hell-like fashion, paperwork only seemed to multiply no matter how much he worked on it. He started reading.

A loud crash made him jump; the papers in his inbox flew into the air and wafted down around him like 8x11 ½" snowflakes. Dean started to cry.

"Bloody hell…?" Crowley hurried over to see what had happened. Dean stood in the center of a circle of fresh dirt and broken crockery, the remains of a potted palm in his fist. He held out the other hand to Crowley.

"Ow. Boo-boo turts." A small spot of blood had formed out of a tiny cut. "Oo tiss it bettah?"

"Fine. Here." Crowley leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the barely oozing boo boo. Whatever a potted palm was doing in Hell never occurred to him before; clearly, they'd have to go, for now. Because his _son_ found them irresistible. And if that were the case, Crowley would get nothing done.

Damn. He'd have to babyproof Hell. Crowley made a mental note to hire a competent nanny. But for now—he waved his hand and the shards of shattered urn and plant disappeared.

Dean looked startled. "Wike Ass?" he queried.

"Do I like ass?" Odd question from a child. "I suppose I do, yes."

"Ass!" The boy cheered and rushed forward. In moments, he was standing on Crowley's feet with a death grip around his knees. "Wuv Ass!" And he head-butted Crowley in the cahones.

_Whoosh!_ Only supreme willfulness and pride kept the King of Hell from squealing like a little girl. He stood his ground, his eyes watering. "Sonofabitch," he croaked.

"Son-a-bitch!" Dean trumpeted.

0-0-0-0-0

"Winchester! You feckin' little git! Leave the kerchief alone!" Crowley reached to save his silk handkerchief, but Dean just giggled and plucked it out of his pocket.

"Bollocks. That's—mine! No, don't put it in your mouth—that's silk, that is—give it here!" He finally managed to wrest it from the boy and shook it in his little, gleeful, freckled face. "Ruined. That's what it is, now. Ruined!"

Dean giggled. "Woo-ined." He waved his small fist at the King of Demons and mirrored his expression in miniature. "Son-a-bitch!"

The door opened and his assistant entered carrying a tray with a covered dish and a pile of clothes, along with a purple plastic wrapped package of something labelled _Pull Ups_. "Awww. Listen to that. He really is kind of cute, for a Winchester."

"Fucking adorable." Crowley stuffed his spit-ruined silk handkerchief back into his pocket, not carrying if it was properly folded or not.

"Here you go, Mr. Crowley. The lunch you ordered. And his clothes."

"Good. Leave the clothes there. Put the tray here. I'm starving." Crowley limped over to his chair and sat down. He lifted the linen napkin from the tray and tucked it in over his tailored shirt. "Cancel all my afternoon meetings, and make sure I'm not disturbed for any reason."

"Very good, sir." She left the office, but not before giving Dean a little finger wiggle.

He watched her leave. "Wady," he said, and blew a kiss.

"Pervy little git." Crowley smiled, despite himself. He lifted the cover of the tray and inhaled. _Delicious._ The perfect entrails. Nice and warm and—out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean be where Dean wasn't supposed to be. "Oh, hell. Get _down_ from there this instant!"

"No."

"That's my billiard table. I just had it re-felted. Get down!"

"Me cwimb!"

"No, you get down!"

"Pudding!"

"My ass, pudding." He reached for the boy.

Dean frowned, then, and looked down at his tiny willie, surprised. "Ooooh!" he said. "Wook! Water!"

"You little cretin, you—oh, no. No! No, you can't wee there!…No! Don't…stop…oh…shit." Crowley lowered his arms and his head in despair as Dean completed baptizing the billiard table.

"Son-a-bitch," the boy agreed.

There was a sudden whoosh, a flapping of wings and a flash of light filled the room as Castiel appeared. Oh, thank...well, thank someone, Crowley thought with a feeling of relief. He might need a competent general, but raising a Winchester wasn't the way to get one, after all. "Consider yourself un-adoptable," he told Dean. "You obnoxious, peeing little—"

"Ass!" Dean cheered.

"Return Dean Winchester to me!" Castiel thundered.

"Stand down, Feathers. He's all yours." Crowley gestured to his ruined pool table. "Would you look at this? He went wee! The little bastard went wee on my billiard table!"

Castiel frowned. "Unhand him?" he demanded, uncertainly.

"You stupid horse's arse. I'm telling you to take him. He's all yours."

"Of course all of him is mine. I don't want just pieces of him." Castiel stepped forward and lifted the small boy from the table; Dean kissed his cheek and wrapped his arms around his neck, squeezing tightly.

"Take him, you celestial simpleton. Get him out of here and let me finish my lunch." Crowley waved him away. "I hope he chokes you until your head pops off."

"Son-a-bitch!" Dean nodded. "Bye bye, Towley."

"Gah," Castiel wheezed, and disappeared in a poof of sandlewood-scented heavenly smoke.

"Asshole," Crowley muttered, and went back to his desk, where he looked down at his by-now cooled lunch. The best laid plans, he thought, and slammed the lid over the plate. _Bollocks!_

0-0-0-0-0

Sam lifted himself to his feet and looked over at Bobby. "I guess there's nothing else we can do, for now." There had to be something. But he couldn't think of what it was. The hole of despair in his chest wiped out all thought.

"We could search the yard," Bobby offered, gesturing to the rows of cars and various buildings on the property. Sam shook his head.

"You know as well as I do that Dean's not here, Bobby. He's been taken." He turned back to the house, feeling wearier than he ever had in his life. "I'll keep trying to raise Cas. You call Jody and together we'll start calling everyone else."

"Okay," Bobby answered.

Suddenly, there was a whoosh and a flurry of wings and feathers, and Sam walked straight into Cas—and Dean. "Dean!" He tore his brother from Cas' arms and held him tight. Or part of him, anyway—the little boy wouldn't let go of the angel's neck.

"S'mm," the angel choked. "G' mm off meeee." He coughed.

"Come on, Dean. Let Ass go." Sam gave the boy a shake; suddenly, Dean's arms were around _his_ neck, gripping tight enough to cut off his air, and he didn't care one bit. He buried his face in his brother's little neck and wallowed in the feel of, the smell of, the _Dean_-ness of his big little brother. "I'm never going to let you out of my sight again."

"Son-a-bitch, Dam!" Dean announced, plunging his fingers into Sam's hair and pulling hard.

Sam winced but didn't pull away. "What did he say?"

Cas shrugged. "He _was_ in Hell, so I suppose it's something he picked up."

"Well, I say the little shit can say whatever he wants!" Bobby stroked the little boy's head with an affectionate hand. "Welcome back, boy. You gave us a helluva scare!"

"Booby! Son-a-bitch."

The old man's grin faltered. "Then again, it's gonna start to wear on us if he decides not to say anything else."

"Whatever. He's fine. I don't care what he says as long as he's here to say it. But he stinks like sulpher and still has syrup in his hair. How 'bout we take you in the house and finally give you that bath, buddy?" Sam kissed Dean's soft cheek. "I'll give you bubbles."

"Yay! Bubbles! Bitch!" Dean cheered.

They trooped up the stairs in order—Bobby, Sam and Cas. Bobby opened the door. And paused, before turning back to Sam. "You freaking idjit! You never turned off the tub! Or pulled the drain!" He spun on his heel and hurried inside. "Look at this godawful mess!" he bellowed. "Sonovabitch!"

Dean giggled against Sam's chest but didn't say anything.

Cas made a face and waved his hand; Dean was suddenly sulpher and syrup free. And clothed in his favorite shirt and overalls.

"Balls! Son-a-bitch, Ass," he said in an affectionate voice.

From inside the house came the bang of a bucket, a shout and, "Where the hell did the water go?"

"Thanks, Cas," Sam sighed. "You saved the day. And Bobby's house, too, I think."

The angel nodded.

Together they entered the house and made their way to the kitchen. Sam strapped and bungeed Dean into his chair as Bobby came into the kitchen and pulled a full bottle of bourbon from the cupboard over the fridge. He glared at Sam, muttered something and left again, booze in hand. Sam didn't care—he couldn't remember when he'd felt so happy. He looked up at the angel.

"Grilled cheese good?"

"That sounds satisfactory," Cas said, and paused. "Will you cut it into triangles?"

"Right now, Cas, I'll give you whatever you want," Sam answered.

"Son-a-bitch!" Dean agreed.

* * *

_Reviews would make me happy and keep my Muse churning out the chapters. Although at this point, I'm not sure what else could go wrong for the boys, the angel, the demon or the old coot. So...inspire me! _


	6. Chapter 6

_Yay! It's a snow day! (Or it will be tomorrow.) I get to stay home! (I hope you're as excited as I am. Probably not. Ah well.) Anyhow, I wrote this today instead of working on a file for a customer named (I kid you not-though I wish I was): Dichlick. (Read it out loud for full effect.) I'm wondering...seriously, how attached to your last name do you have to be to keep it, especially if it sounds pornographic? Destielulous/Sabrielish, even? Or...Wincestual? Gasp._

_Anyhow, I was inspired to avoid the documents of Dichlick and write this, instead. Hope you enjoy...and review. The Dichlicks of the world will thank you!_

* * *

**SIX**

**_***The following is a recent broadcast from Angel Radio…***_**

Okay, buddy. Hold still. I know it hurts. Just relax.

Sam, hold the flashlight over here. I can't see a friggin' thing. There, that's better.

You see it? Can you see it, Bobby?

Hold yer wad, idjit…Yeah, I see it. Hold on. Hand me those tweezers.

This pair?

No, those. The smaller ones should do it.

Here. Wait...are they sterilized?

They're going up his nose. You don't think that's already full of bacteria—and _other _gunk? You should be asking me if _he's_ been sterilized, for Chrissake. Okay, hold his head still. I'm going in.

Son-a-bitch!

Okay. Okay, Dean. Sit still! It's okay. _Shhh_…_shh_…it's all right, buddy. Don't cry.

This'll teach you not to shove Lego blocks up yer schnozz.

Bobby!

Don't Bobby me, Samantha. He should know better.

He's innocent, Bobby.

Innocent, my ass. He knew exactly what he was doing. The question is—_why _would he do it?

Son-a-bitch!

Dean, stop jumping around like that! Someone's gonna lose an eye. Sam, will you take those freaking tweezers away from him?

Okay. Dean…wait. Give—give me—I said give me those—_ow_! (indisguishable mutter) Bobby, how come you're not…

If yer askin' me why I'm not diggin' around in there, it's because I'm waiting for you to hold his head. Hurry up, though, before that Lego disappears. All it's gonna take is one good snork and that thing is visitin' his upper sinus cavity.

Okay. Dean. Gimme those. I don't know why Bobby got them out anyway.

Because—unlike _some_ people—I like to be prepared for any contingency, ya idjit. _Sit_ down! (sounds of person being forcefully made to sit in chair)

Aw, geez, Bobby. Don't talk to him like that. Look, you made him cry.

_Boo-de-hoody-hoo._ Just hold his head still. By his ears if you have to.

All right, big guy. It's all right. I'm here. Relax. We're almost done…_shhhhh_…

You got him now? I'm going in. _Again._ Oh, damn.

Dam! Dammy! Dammy!

All _right_, Dean. It's okay. Here, hold the flashlight for Bobby.

Would you—_augh!_—Not in my eyes, you little—Sam! What the hell? Now I'm blind…

Sorry, Bobby. Dean, give me the flashlight—_OW_! Oh, _muphmgr_…Give it. GIVE me the flashlight!

Good job, Sasquatch, now _you_ made him cry.

He hit me in the eye!

Oh, shaddup, ya giant baby. Man up and get over it—OW! Fuck!

Duck! Son-a-bitch!

_…silence…_

Thanks a lot, Bobby. Now he's saying the eff word.

Well, what did you expect? The little shit got me right on the bridge of the nose.

He hit_ me_ in the eye and I didn't say it. You heard me, I said _muphmgr…_

Whatever, Saint Samantha. Let's just do this thing.

You keep saying that but it's not happening.

Yeah, I wonder the eff why? Hold him!

Okay.

Hold his head!

I _am_!

Well, he's _wiggling_.

STOP wiggling.

Well, thanks. I could've told him that.

Yeah, but you _didn't_.

_…silence…_

Move that flashlight this way.

I don't have the flashlight. You made me put it away, out of reach.

_Deep sigh is heard._ Cas. Cas! Do you think you could—_oh_! Okay. _That's_ different, but it works.

Holy shit. His nose is _glowing_.

Yeah, but it works, so don't knock it. Ahhh…aha!

Got it?

Yep. Heeeeere we go…there! All done!

Good job, Cas!

Good job, my ass. Next time, don't stick a friggin' block up yer nose, you feathered idjit.

Aw, Bobby. Leave him alone. He didn't know. And when it comes to Dean, it's like monkey-see, monkey-do. He can't help himself. Here, Cas…here's a rainbow sticker for you. You can put it on your tie. Good boy!

Yeah, right. And we're supposed to trust _him_ to be in charge of all Creation?

_…pause…_

Um…Bobby?..._longer pause_…Um…where's Dean?

Aw, BALLS!


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: I truly intended to finish a chapter where Sam takes Dean (and Cas) to playgroup but I've been delayed; Sam keeps packing and unpacking the diaper bag. _

_So he suggested I post this instead. It's in Bobby's POV (and poor Bobby is the reason Sam is taking Dean and Cas to playgroup in the first place; the man is about to rip his hair out). I can assure you, it will be the type of thing Sam will look back upon with fondness when Dean is an adult again and downloading Busty Asian porn onto his laptop. He'll be thinking, "Dude. Gross. Where did my little big brother go?"_

_Thanks for all the nice reviews, follows and favs. :) It's motivating me to prod Sam to finish prepping already, get to the playgroup and save Bobby's sanity (and what's left of his hair). I mean, honestly. It's Mommies, not monsters. How much research does he need to do?_

* * *

**SEVEN**

He needed coffee. Well-laced with booze.

Ten hours of Latin would do that to anyone. _Even the Pope._ Not that the Pope read Latin, anymore, but hey—if the analogy worked…Bobby stepped into the living room on the way to the kitchen; what he saw made him stop.

He didn't want to ask. He really, really didn't. But then, some things couldn't be ignored. Things like Dean and Cas, each draped with a blanket and standing in the center of the room. Bobby could hear them giggling; they hissed and shook and wiggled with excitement. But they didn't move from their places. Sam, busy on his laptop, ignored them _and_ him.

He tapped Sam in the leg with his foot. "What in the blue blazes is going on in here?"

Sam looked up from his laptop. "Oh, hey. Yeah." He grinned in an _aren't they cute_ kind of way.

"Yeah my ass." Bobby turned and stared at the blanket-shrouded pair. Dean's blanket had Barney on it; Cas' was a loud, orange and green plaid. "What are they supposed to be, some kind of deranged ghosts?"

"Who?" Sam asked, and then he winked. "By the way, have you see Cas and Dean? They've gone _invisible_ and I can't find them."

The pair of blankets giggled again.

"Fucking hell," Bobby said, and moved on to the kitchen.

"It's quiet in here." Sam turned his attention back to the laptop. "If only I knew where Cas and Dean were…I could _find_ them." The blankets twitched and tittered.

"Yeah, right." Bobby poured coffee into his mug. His life had been relatively quiet before Sam had brought home hexed-Dean. He just hadn't realized it at the time. What with hunting scaries and fuglies and all that.

But this? It was going to drive him insane. Dean was a cute little kid and all, but the problem was—he _was_ a kid. It brought a whole new realm of scary to his life, and it wasn't anything he could prepare for. There were no spells or charms for toddlers. Or their guardian angels, for that matter. And the fact was, he'd done kid-Dean once already. It had been difficult enough the first time 'round. Bottom line was, he was too old, too tired and too smart to do it a second time.

Which is why he needed to research the heck out of this hex and be sure that Dean grew up again, and fast. Much more of this preschool hoobie doo, and he was going to commit hari-kari. Invisible his ass. Throw some holy water on them-hell, any water-on them, and they'd be visible soon enough.

As much as he ached to douse the dynamic duo, he shook his head and decided it would be better to just get back to the Latin and get things could get back to normal. Ghosts he could salt and burn, vampires he could decapitate, demons he could exorcise, monsters he could kill. He started back to his desk.

As he drew close, Dean pulled his blanket off his head. He didn't do it well; it tangled around his body and neck and his hair stood up in from static. His wide, green eyes twinkled with excitement, his cheeks flushed pink and he looked cute enough to squish. "Raaah Booby! Tare oo! Boo!" Dean growled. "Grrr-rah!"

"Ooh. I'm petrified." Bobby said drily. "Aah. Sam. Help. Save me. It's a…little kid shaped thing-"

"It's a dinosaur!" Sam supplied.

"Yeah, right. A dinosaur. Aaah. Help, help. I'm so scared."

Dean giggled so hard, he fell down.

"RAH!" Cas squealed then, and pulled off his blanket.

Bobby and Sam stared.

"Holy…wow. Cas really _is _invisible," Sam said.

"Aw hell," Bobby replied and made his way back to the library, Cas' giggles ringing in his ears.

* * *

_Poor Bobby. Maybe if I send him a nice liquor basket, he'll feel better. And I know I'd feel better if you reviewed this. Thank you!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's note: So tonight my seven-year-old asked me, "Mom? If you're in Hell but you're really, really good, do they put you in water to cool off for awhile?" Feel free to use that for your very own writing prompt, if it sparks something in you. (I just told him to ask his dad, though in my heart I wished I could just ask a Winchester. Not that they'd talk about it. Sigh. They're so difficult!)  
_

_Speaking of Hell and difficult, that pretty much describes this chapter for me. It's long, it's got a different tone than the rest of the chapters (sort of), and it even introduces an OC. (In my other life__-you know, the one where I don't read and write SPN fanfic obsessively-I write romance. I'm afraid this chick filtered in from that part of my brain. Even though I tried repeatedly to push her back, she wouldn't go. She was on a mission; in the end, I gave up and finally realized she was exactly what Sam needed. I don't know what will happen with her and I'm pretty sure there won't be a romantic involvement, but I do know that Sam needs a friend who's not Bobby or Cas.) YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.  
_

_Also, be warned: There's some slash in here. (You'll know it when you see it.) But don't you be getting all excited about it, you slasher-y types, because it's only temporary._

_Many thanks to flutterbycupcake, Marlee James, BlackIceWitch, Lampito (to whom I bow with extreme reverence),SPNReadingManiac,Freya922, and karonkgb for their reviews and PMs. Your words have meant more to me than you'll ever know!_

* * *

**EIGHT**

"Okay, Cas. We're going to take Dean to playgroup today. Bobby needs some 'me' time." _And I need to get out of the house before I go postal. So don't eff it up._ Sam bit his tongue. Since the Lego incident, he'd been less than awed by Cas' Angel of the Lord/Almost Deity status and had started thinking of him more as Dean's _special_ uncle.

Still, he had to admit he appreciated the fact Cas had poofed into the Impala shortly before they arrived at the Sioux Falls Library and Tot Park, where the Sioux Falls Parents' Reach Out Playgroup was scheduled to meet. Because he wasn't exactly sure what would happen.

Which reminded him… "Cas, the diaper bag. On the floor near your feet."

Cas peered between his legs. "I see no bag made of diapers, Sam. However, there is a bag with ducks and rainbows on it."

"That's the one." Sam chose to ignore his brother piping in—predictably—with an explosive, "Duck! Son-a-bitch!" at the mention of (close to) one of his favorite words.

Instead, Sam continued, "Could you look inside and make sure I remembered to pack juice boxes?"

"Ooh, I wike duiceboxes," Cas said, undoing the zipper. "Yes, Sam. You did. There are four duiceboxes here."

"That's right. Two for each of you." Sam sighed. "Crackers?"

"Fish _and _teddies!" Cas affirmed.

"Tissues? Wipes? Band-ades? Neosporin—cream _and_ spray? Benadryl liquid? Children's Acetaminophen? The Owie Bunny? Suncreen, paba-free, SPF 50+?"

"Yes. It appears you've packed all of them, Sam. Can I have some cra—"

"Those are for snacktime, Cas. No." Sam spoke firmly.

"Oh." The angel sighed; if Sam could see his wings, he was sure they'd be drooping.

"Okay. Check the center pocket. Two spare diapers, a changing mat, a spare pair of pants, socks—two pairs—and a shirt? Dean's Barney hat, his Elmo sunglasses…"

"Yes."

"Okay. Good. Internal side pocket. A coloring book, an eight pack of crayons, the time-out timer?"

"Yes."

"A pen, a notebook, my father's journal, the bone-handled demon knife, the angel blade, a flask of holy water, a bottle of holy oil, some sage, and a one pound container of pink Himalayan sea salt?"

"All here."

"A bottle of filtered spring water?"

"Yes." Cas paused. "I'm unaware of the protective and or expulsive function of filtered spring water."

"That's for me. It's important to stay hydrated."

"Oh." Cas nodded, then made a squeaking noise; the windshield of a passing car shattered. "Sam! Are these…_stickers_? Right here between the salt and the holy water?"

"Oh! Yes." Sam shrugged. He'd forgotten those. "You can take a sticker if you want, Cas."

Cas beamed. "Thank you, Sam. That makes me feel something that I believe is what you humans would call 'happy'."

"Good. Pick whatever you want. We're here." He pulled into an empty space. When he got out, he noticed several people looking at them with fear on their faces. Baby _did_ look out of place (and slightly menacing) surrounded by minivans and SUVs with stick people decals on their windows.

No matter, he told himself. They could blend once they got into the tot park. Sam lifted his face to the sun; a slight breeze lifted his hair and played with the curls at the back of his neck. He'd missed being outside, and was sick of having no one to talk to but Bobby. And Cas. He was sick and tired of repeated requests for snacks and "fix dis" and "need its" and "me wants", of diaper changes, and Mike the Knight and endless (endless!) repetitions of "I Love You, You Love Me, we're a happy fam-i-ly..." at bedtime and Wheels every other moment of the day...

He looked forward to the time he could tell his brother to eff off, grow up, sing his own damn songs, wipe his own nasty ass and get his own freaking pie. And then, he'd take a long, Dean-free vacation.

Sam opened his eyes and squinted at the tot park. Right now, all he wanted was a few minutes of peace. If he could just sit on a bench, drink his water, and maybe talk to an adult who wasn't Bobby, he'd be happy.

0-0-0-0-0

"Hi, we're here for the playgroup?" Sam stopped at the first cluster of Mommies they encountered.

The Mommies gave him a collective up-and-down stare, and he suddenly realized how true the statement _to be undressed with someone's eyes_ could be. That's ridiculous, he told himself, but he could still feel himself blushing from the heat in their gazes.

Around his neck, Dean's arm tightened.

"Wadies!" he purred in Sam's ear, and chortled in a sexed-up toddler way that would have been disconcerting if the younger yet always bigger brother didn't already feel naked in a tot park full of women.

_Man up, Dam, he told himself. These are mommies!_ _And mommies are nice, and soft, and do things like tuck tissues into their sleeves, ready to wipe a runny nose at moment's notice... _

One of them took matters into her own hands and stepped forward. Sam tightened his grip around Dean and took a deep breath.

"Hi, I'm Amy. You look like a newbie."

"Yeah, hi, I'm Sam Winchester and this is my bro—my b—" Funny. He could masquerade as an FBI agent, could talk circles around cops, coroners and criminal investigators, but when it came to this, he was clueless. _When you lie, keep it simple. _His father's voice sounded in his ears. Of course, the only John Winchester advice he could recall involved how to con someone. Still, right now, it was useful. "This is Dean." He cleared his throat and held out his hand.

Amy ignored his hand and went straight for his bicep; she wrapped her fingers around his arm and purred as she stroked and squeezed. "Hi, Sam Winchester. My goodness, you're tall. Tell me, are you big all over, or is it just your arms that are hard and huge?"

"I—um—I…" Desperately, he tried to recall some words, _any_ words. Even words from John, or better, some kind of woman-related advice from Dean, but all that he could find knocking around in his brain was _Christo_. No, that wasn't the word he wanted. _Was it?_ "Um—I—uh…hi!"

On his arm, Dean chortled. "Ooh, _yeah_." _Oh, sure. _Now_ he pipes in._ Figures he'd retain his pervyness and none of his useful personality traits. Did he _have _any useful personality traits? Sam couldn't remember _that_ either, because there was a woman trying to molest him. She leaned into his body like a snake twining around a tree trunk. A very nice, pretty snake—the kind that squeezed but didn't bite. The kind that coiled tight…and swallowed her victims whole. Except, she had hands. And gym-steeled arms shown off by her pink, sleeveless top.

_Sleeves. _That meant something. Didn't it? _Tissues!_ Sam blinked. _Mommy! This is a Mommy!_ If Mommies have babies and Dean is a baby, then the Mommy will have Dean. _No, wait. She will have _me_. No, wait! _

_Focus, Sam. You've fought demons—big, scary ones, and hellhounds and werewolves and vampires and ghouls and ghosts and wendigos and shapeshifters and…well, a crap load of scary fuglies. You can handle Amy the Mommy from Sioux Falls._ "This is Dean," Sam told Amy again. "He's about eighteen months old."

"He's a cutie," Amy purred appropriately, so that was something. Sam took another deep breath and tried hard to relax. Then she tightened her grip and pressed her breasts—which were hard as silicone-filled rocks—against Sam's side. His heart bumped. "He's almost as cute as you, Daddy."

_Daddy. Daddy?_ _There's a daddy?_ "Uh…" Sam looked over his shoulder for Cas, who had announced he'd carry the diaper bag. He spotted the angel struggling to get through the gate without accidentally braining some hapless child with it.

"Cas! Cas, over here!"

The angel swung the bag over the fence then and rushed to Sam's side, his eyes full of heavenly fire. He would have looked quite intimidating except for the giant, blue ribbon reward sticker stuck to the lapel of his trenchcoat. It read, _#1 I used the potty today_. "Is Dean in danger?"

"No, it's just—I—um…"

"Wait. I see the problem. I'm on it, Sam." Cas narrowed his eyes; in a flash, he'd moved into Amy's personal space. "I am Castiel. I'm an—"

"Cas." Sam made quick introductions before the former Warrior of the Lord could melt the first Mommy he'd met at playgroup. "Cas, this is Amy and she's a—"

"I know what she is, Sam." He gave her a celestial stare full of impending annihilation.

Amy dropped Sam's arm, uncoiled, and stepped away. "Oh! Oh. Ohhhhhhh, _I_ see. Well, that's too bad." She gave Sam an eye-roll. "You'll want to talk to Miranda. She _thinks_ she's in charge. Over there, with the red hair. See her?"

"I see her. I'll check her out." Cas brushed by Sam on full angelic alert; Sam could have sworn he felt a heavenly, feathery pinion ping his cheek.

He gave a nervous chuckle. "He's—he's a little…um…protective."

"I can see that." Amy raised her eyebrows. "Well, if you ever decide to give him up, come find me." She turned and went back to the cluster of Mommies who swarmed around her, closing ranks and hurling looks not unlike the one the witch who'd turned Dean into a toddler had given him, just before she prepared to strike.

Sam hurried after Cas before he could burn out Miranda's insides with the touch of his hand. Just in time, too—Cas was looming over the small, soft-looking woman whose predominate feature was a spill of curling red hair. And alarmingly large hooters.

"I am not a Daddy, I am an-"

"Hi! I'm Sam. Amy said you're in charge." He held out his free hand to her; she took it between her thumb and forefinger. Much better than Amy's full-on body contact, though her acrylic talon-like nails grazed his skin.

"I'll bet she did," she muttered through clenched teeth.

"I read on the website that we pay the group a three dollar fee for use of toys and facilities. Here you go." He held out the money.

Miranda took the fanned dollar bills that Sam handed her without looking at them. Instead, she looked the angel up and down in a way that made Sam wonder if she had x-ray vision; Cas began to blush.

"I like your trench coat. It's a little warm for a coat, though, don't you think? Here, let me help you take it off…"

"Oh. I…I am not sure that…" Cas' warrior gaze turned into something less menacing, more menaced as the woman expertly slipped the coat from his shoulders and tucked it under her arm.

"That's better. You have nice, broad shoulders." She put her hands on either side of his neck. "Very nice. You know, if you loosened your tie—"

"You don't have to—my neck attire is—I—um…Sam!" Cas leaned back, practically falling into Sam's personal space, where he hovered in panic.

Dean breathed hot breath into Sam's ear, and Sam suddenly remembered why they were there. "Miranda, this is Dean." He jiggled his brother up and down. "Dean, say 'hi' to the nice lady!"

"Hi, nice wady." Dean looked Miranda up and down in a manner so reminiscent of adult Dean, Sam braced himself for a pick-up line. In fact, he realized, he'd be grateful for a pick-up line, because it would make Miranda go away. _Please, Dean, he pleaded, give her the old power playah come on…_

Instead, Dean squirmed in his arm. "Dee down. Dee pway."

"Shit! I mean... play! We'll play! With toys. I mean—kid's toys. Yes. That's what I meant." He felt his face begin to burn, so he turned away and knelt to set Dean on the squishy black rubber padding that carpeted the tot park. "Okay, Dean. Play nice with the other kids. I'll be right over here with Cas, okay?"

"Otay. Wuv oo." Dean gave Sam's cheek his usual slimy, open-mouthed kiss and hurried off.

"He's a loveable little guy," Miranda observed. To Cas.

"Yes, he is." Cas nodded, watching Dean moving across the playground toward the sand pit. "We share a profound bond."

"I bet you're very loveable." She sidled closer to him and began playing with the buttons of his shirt.

"I—I—Sam!" Cas squeaked; somewhere on the other side of the playground, one of the library's windows shattered.

Sam grabbed the angel's arm and pushed him behind him. "We try to create a loving and stimulating home environment with appropriate methods of behavioral management and plenty of positive physical contact and interaction," he said. _I'm babbling. Why am I babbling? I thought there would be grown-ups here. Where are the grown ups?_ _Help. Heeelp!_

"Wait," Miranda said, noticing Sam for what felt like the first time. "So…you're Dean's…Daddy?"

"I—well…yes." _Crap._ For all intents and purposes, Sam supposed, he was. Miranda blinked, and peered around him, at Cas.

"And _you're_ his Daddy?" she asked.

"I am his…I…am…I…am…" Cas babbled in fear.

The woman narrowed her eyes and took a step back. "Oh! So Dean has _two_ daddies."

"Exactly."_ No, wait a minute._ Sam paused. He didn't want to be eaten alive by oversexed Mommies, but he didn't want them to think he was _gay_, either. Not that there was anything wrong with being gay, but—to be gay with Cas was kind of…well…He looked at the angel, who looked back at him and blinked like a deer about to be pancaked by a semi.

On the other hand, if he had to be gay with someone, he supposed, he could do worse than Cas. The angel had nice blue eyes, and a husky, bed-roomy voice, and there was that whole almost-deity thing going on, so… He gave the angel a smile that he hoped wasn't too gay, but was gay enough to show that he wasn't absolutely opposed to the whole idea of being gay with Cas, if only for the time it took them to escape from Miranda, Amy and the other man-molesting mommies of the Sioux Falls Reach Out (and grab you) Parents' Group.

I hate my life, he thought.

"I get it." She gave Cas a sad kind of smile and handed back his trenchcoat. "That's…well. Nice."

Sam watched her turn and leave.

"Well. That's a relief." Cas sighed as his shoulders slumped. A shining black feather appeared from nowhere and fluttered past Sam's face.

Apparently, Cas had begun to molt.

"Dude, they think we're a couple!" He couldn't blame the angel for molting; if he'd had feathers, he'd start losing them too. But he didn't have long to contemplate this because Cas straightened suddenly and bolted across the playground.

"I shall avenge you, Dean!" he shouted.

"You will not avenge anybody!" Sam lunged to grab Cas' arm. Undaunted and unstoppable on his mission, the angel dragged Sam across the playground in his wake. Sam wondered if the smell of burned rubber was in his imagination or if it was, in fact, a fact. But it wasn't something he could focus on at the moment. Cas was in full-smiting mode.

"That little—person—threw sand in Dean's eyes!" Cas swooped in and scooped a crying Dean into his arms. "You!" he roared into the other child's face, angel eyes set to full-on death ray. He reached his hand out to touch the kid's forehead.

"Cas—it's okay. They're just kids!" Sam knocked the angel's hand away. All he'd wanted was to take his little big brother to the playground and get out of Bobby's musty, dusty house. And now, he was a big gay Daddy, saving sand-flinging toddlers from certain smite. What had he done to deserve this?

Besides starting the Apocalypse, that is.

"Hey! How about some kwakahs? I've got duiceboxes!" Sam shouted in desperation.

Cas stopped, turned his head. "Appa duice or twopica fwoot?"

"Fwoot."

"Oh. Okay." He stepped away from the offending toddler. "But next time I won't be so nice!" He shook his index finger at the cowering child, then turned to Sam with a happy expression. "Can I have goldfish? They're my favorite."

0-0-0-0-0

Sam sat on the edge of a metal bench, watching Dean push Cas on a tricycle. The belt of the angel's trenchcoat was getting tangled in one of the rear wheels. Good, he thought. _I hope it strangles him._ He took a drink of filtered spring water and wished it was rotgut whiskey. Or maybe arsenic. Whichever would kill him faster.

A shadow fell over him as someone moved close; a woman dropped down onto the bench beside him. Sam tensed and looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, ready to flee if she tried to kiss him, stroke him or crawl into him. Instead, she settled back, took out a book and began to read.

Sam wished he'd thought to bring a book. A real book. Not a journal, or a grimoire, or a scroll containing ancient Sanskrit or Latin but a novel. With a story in it. About people. Who didn't fight monsters. Maybe something with a lawyer in it.

He sighed.

The woman shifted beside him. When he sighed again, she lifted her head. "Every time you sigh, you ruffle my pages."

"Oh! I'm sorry." He turned then to fully look at her.

She was short, and sort of plain-looking, with a practically non-existent chest and no other cosmetically enhanced features. She wore long sleeves, and no makeup...her nails were unpolished and kind of torn and picked at, like she worked hard…a tissue picked at him from the pocket of her jeans. She was—_A Mommy!_ Sam felt his heart expand. A real, honest to God, Mommy-like-Mommy. Even better, when she smiled at him, he didn't feel naked or frightened. He just felt…warmed. "I'm Sam," he said and offered his hand to her.

"I know," she said, and shook it.

"You know?" Was she a psychic? How did she—

"Relax," she told him. "The Sioux Falls Reach Out Parent's Playgroup has an underground gossip mill that would put the CIA to shame. You and your partner there were old news as soon as you hit the parking lot."

"You knew my name as soon as we hit the parking lot?" Sam blinked.

She rolled her eyes; they were a pretty shade of blue-green, even unadorned by cosmetics. "No, you goofball. But it only took about thirty seconds for it to make the rounds after you told the Amazing Spider Woman."

Sam paused. "You mean…Amy?"

"Aka, 'the Black Widow'." she nodded.

"Did she…kill her husband?" He looked over the tot park until he found her wrapped around a daddy trying to fend her off with an umbrella stroller. He failed; the stroller opened and she just kicked it aside to twine around him. "I wouldn't be surprised if she did."

"Only metaphorically. She divorced him, sucked him dry and left him hanging."

"Huh. And I'd thought she was a snake."

"Yeah, well, she's that, too. Rather viper-ish. But then I couldn't say, 'Beware the kiss of the Spider Woman' to visiting Daddies." The woman nodded. "My name's Annie O'Connor. And that little ray of sunshine—" she indicated a tiny, wispy blonde-haired girl currently beating another child with a foam light saber—"Is Amelia. Also O'Connor. Because she's mine." She gave him a look that dared him to ask who the child's father was, or why he wasn't in the picture.

"Gotcha." Sam nodded. "She's cute."

"She's a monster."

If you only knew, Sam thought.

"But I'll keep her. She's the only monster I've got. Wears me out, costs a fortune, makes me pull my hair and want to cry, but at the end of the day I look at her and…well, you know." Annie leaned close enough for the combined scents of her shampoo and some kind of household cleanser to waft to Sam's nose; he didn't feel compelled to pull away. "Sometimes," she confessed, "She's so cute when she's sleeping, I want to wake her up just to hear her talk."

Sam thought of Dean, asleep in his bed with his arms thrown over his head, his little hands relaxed and spread in a starfish shape, his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and his mouth working as he dreamed little boy dreams... He understood exactly how Annie felt. "But you don't."

"Hell, no. I'm not crazy. I said I _want_ to do it, but then I think about how I'd much rather take a hot bath and scope out some porn, and…" She leaned back and grinned. "Gotcha. Your whole face did this weird, panicked crumple thing when I said 'porn'. Heh." She picked up the Styrofoam cup of coffee at her feet and took a swig. "Paranoid? Or did the nice ladies of Sioux Falls scare you _that_ much?"

"Heh. Yeah, something like that." Sam tried to grin and found that he could. Annie was easy to talk to; he felt himself relax for the first time since Dean had turned toddler. He lifted his spring water to his mouth and took a deep swallow.

"So, how's the Warrior of the Lord working out? Looked like things almost got a bit smitey there for a second."

Water spewed across the playground as Sam spluttered. "_What_?"

Annie flipped her book over; he saw himself, adult Dean and Cas in full angelic mode staring out at him from its lurid cover. "Busted. But don't worry, Batman. Your secret's safe with me." She laughed. "No one would believe me, anyway." She tucked the book into the backpack on the bench beside her.

He thought about panicking for real, but then the Hunter in him took over and a welcome calm spread through him, instead. Sam tilted his head. Something about her manner of speech reminded him of…Meg. He thought about the flask of holy water in the diaper bag at his feet. _Would take too long. Too risky. _Instead, he tried a different tact. "Christo."

She made a face at him, but her eyes didn't turn black. "Dude. Seriously? I'm not a demon, I'm just a mom. A single mom in a community full of vipers, witches and skeeves."

Well—_that_ was a relief. "Witches?" He thought of the coven-like group at the front tot park gate.

"Not those kind of witches. Well…not that I know of. More like—you know—your run-of-the-mill nasty women."

"Ah." He nodded, and noticed Dean climbing the ladder to an enclosed slide, Cas hovered protectively behind him. He turned back to Annie. "Are you...a fangirl?"

"Well, ordinarily I'd tell you I'm a Dean-girl, but since I heard your little guy's name is Dean, trust me, that ain't happening right now. I've got enough cookies on my plate, thank you very much. Still—I recognize that deer in the headlights look you've got going on, from seeing it in my own mirror. And even if you weren't Sam Winchester, I'd offer you the same thing...if you need someone to talk to—I'm here. I know how overwhelming it can be to play Mommy and Daddy at the same time."

Sam blinked. A civilian who knew what he was and what he did, who knew he wasn't fictional, and who didn't want to jump him or join him? "You're weird, Annie."

"Thank you, Sam. I love you, too."

He rested his elbows on his thighs and dangled his water bottle between his knees. The sun warmed his shoulders and he relaxed in its warmth and the warmth from the woman sitting beside him. "So…what do you bring to playgroup? I think I overpacked."

"Yeah, I felt the ground shake when Cas dropped your bag awhile ago. I'll show you what I bring. Look. An extra diaper. Some wipes. A drink. Oh, and hand sanitizer."

"Hand sanitizer! I knew I'd forgotten something!" He pressed his palm to his forehead; he lowered it when he heard Annie burst into laughter.

"Don't look now, Winchester, but your husband-slash-baby daddy-slash-angel is stuck in the slide tube."

Sam sighed and stood. "I hate my life."

Annie stood, too; the top of her head barely grazed his armpit. "Just think, if you really _were _gay, you'd have some lube in that diaper bag along with everything else. Come on. Let's go get him unstuck before he smites the tot park."

0-0-0-0-0

Bobby met them at the door in a scene oddly reminiscent of their first day of toddler Dean. Except Cas was following him, his #1 sticker half-torn, his feet heavy as he hauled what Annie had called "the diaper bag of doom" up the steps. He dropped it by the door; there was a boom and the house shook.

"So…did you have a nice time? I see _someone_ fell asleep on the way home."

"Yep, he did." Sam carried Dean to the couch and set him down gently. He did a quick palm swipe of Dean's diaper area—squishy, slightly damp, but nothing that couldn't wait until he woke up. He covered him with the Barney blanket.

"I got stuck in the slide," Cas said mournfully. "I got a boo boo."

"Ah. I almost forgot." Sam went back to the diaper bag and opened it up; he withdrew the box of Band Ades. "Spongebob, Diego, or Cars?"

"Cars," Cas said, mournfully.

"Lightning or Mater?"

"Mater."

"You got it, buddy." He strode to stand in front of Cas. "Um…you gotta help me out here. I can't see your wings, remember?"

"Oh." Cas nodded. Suddenly, fully feathered black wings stretched out behind him, spanning Bobby's living room from wall to wall.

"Holy shit, that's a hell of a rack," Bobby said in awe. "Are they heavy?"

"Only when I try to swim." Cas shook his head; behind him, his wings shivered. A feather detached and see-sawed to the floor. "Ow," he said mournfully.

Sam noticed a small, reddened bare patch near the top curve on the left hand wing. "Is that it? Right there?"

"Uh-huh." Cas nodded.

"Aww." Sam reached up and put the bandage in place. "There. All better?"

"I think so," Cas said. "It would feel much better if you kissed it."

"Aw, for fuck's sake," Bobby barked. "I need a drink." He stomped off into the kitchen.

Sam stood on tiptoe to give the wounded, bandaged area a quick kiss; Cas' wings smelled slightly dusty and sandlewood-y, and tickled his nose and lips. He blinked back a sneeze. "There. Better now?"

"Yes." Cas smiled; his wings disappeared then, though the Mater Band-Ade hovered weirdly in the air high over his left shoulder. "I had fun today. Did you?"

Bobby returned from the kitchen with a bottle of bourbon. He glanced up at the bandage and shook his head. "Idjit."

"You should talk to Sam," Cas intoned then, wing repaired and dignity restored. "He made a friend today."

"A friend? Of the feminine persuasion?" Bobby lifted the bottle at Sam. "I knew you had it in ya', boy."

"Her name is Annie. She's not a demon, though she talks like one," Cas continued.

Bobby lowered the bottle. "What?"

"And just so you know—Sam and I are married and Dean's our son. I'm returning to heaven now."

Cas poofed out.

Bobby turned to Sam. "Do I _really_ want to know?"

"Nope." Sam grinned. "But if anyone asks, Cas is the bottom."

* * *

_***OMG. My son is at this very moment watching Beverly Hills Chihuahua 3 (apparently, he's trying to be IN Hell); Sebastian Roche (aka BALTHAZAR) is in it, playing Chef Roche! One of OUR angels, in a Disney movie! Oh...I feel soiled...I need to go lie down.***_

_Feel free to review this chapter. I need some motivation to move onto chapter nine. Dean's got three weeks of toddlerhood left!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: If you don't know who the Bubble Guppies are, and you really, reeeeeaaally want to know what the Line Up song is, you can find it on YouTube under Bubble Guppies Outside Song. WARNING: It will get stuck in your head. OTOH, it's a fun little song and it's even more fun to imagine Sam singing it to Dean to get him going. (As Bobby reaches for the booze...) _

_I wonder if this now means I've written an SPN/Bubble Guppies crossover? With Star Wars elements. Whatever it is, Sam deserves it after the "playgroup incident". Poor thing is probably scarred for life by all those mommies!_

_Please review, Obi Readers. You're my only hope..._

* * *

NINE

"Bobby! I'm going out!" Sam appeared in the doorway, his face flushed.

"You all right, boy? What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm just-I'll be back later. Maybe tomorrow morning. I'm not sure, but...will you watch Dean for me?"

"It's what I do, isn't it? I've been doing it his whole life, practically. Why should this be any different?" Bobby moved forward to put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "You sure everything's okay? Where are you going?"

"I'll tell you later. There are extra diapers upstairs in our bedroom. Cas promised to stick around to watch him tonight, while you're sleeping." Sam grinned and slipped away, leaving Bobby with another thing to worry about.

0-0-0-0-0

He was making the rounds prior to going to bed; he hadn't heard from Sam since he'd left, and truth be told he was feeling kind of squirrely about the whole thing. Sam was up to something, but he didn't know what, and with that boy's track record he had reason to be nervous. So when Bobby found Sam's phone lying on the desk next to his laptop, he had no qualms with checking his text messages.

_Help me Sam Winchester. You're my only hope._

**Don't tell me you're channeling Princess Leia now.**

_ Not unless you want me to._

**I dunno. Tell me what you're wearing. :P**

_A bathrobe and two coffee buns. How about you?_

**What do you think I'm wearing? ;)**

_Something plaid?_

**Lucky guess.**

_Yeah, right. Like you own something that _isn't_ plaid._

**I do!**

_Jeans don't count._

**Do, too.**

_Keep trying, Winchester. Maybe someday you'll get lucky._

**Is that a promise?**

_Are you flirting with me?_

**I might be. Are you flirting with *me*?**

_You do know who this is, don't you?_

**Oh, it's not Princess Leia? Damn. Why? Who do you think I am?**

_I already know who you are, you twit. C above._

**I could be Darth Vadar.**

_Why would you flirt with me?_

**Why wouldn't I flirt with you?**

_Well. You know._

**No, I don't know. What?**

_Me. Single mom, blahblah._

**Yeah, so? Single dad, blahblah.**

_Single brother, you mean._

**Whatever. Same thing.**

No it's not.

**How so?**

_I'm in this for the duration. You're only stuck here for another few weeks._

**That's what you think. I'll still have to live with him. And he's a lot harder to appease when he's big.**

_At least his taste in music will improve._

**Says you. You try listening to Back in Black 15,000 times in a row on a cross country trip and tell me how much you like it. You'll be praying for Bubble Guppies. Believe me.**

_Doubt it. If I hear that Line Up song one more time…_

**I love that song. It's the only way we can get from one place to another without a struggle.**

_Yeah, but I bet you remember all the words. I only can remember the "everybody get out" part._

**Bah. You don't give yourself enough credit.**

_Oh no! BRB._

**Leia? Where r u? U ok?**

_OMG, ur not going to believe what just happened._

**The Death Star blew up your home planet?**

_You really are a geek, aren't you?_

**It was a peaceful planet…whimper**

_Amelia just tried to flush the cat down the toilet!_

**It was a peaceful kitty…**

_Shut up, you giant nerd. I don't think Mittens will ever be the same. _

**Mittens? You named ur cat Mittens? I think all her troubles started with that and worked out from there.**

_Mittens is a *he*._

**Well, there you go then. I rest my case.**

_Sam Winchester, you are not a nice man!_

**Hey, don't blame me. You're the one who gave your male cat a girl's name.**

_Sorry. I didn't realize mittens were gender specific._

**Have you ever seen a guy wearing mittens?**

_I bet *you* wear mittens._

**Thanks a lot.**

_I was only kidding. I'm sorry._

** No, that's okay. I guess I'm a little oversensitive after yesterday. Now that everyone in Sioux Falls thinks I'm married to Cas. Can I ask-do I seem gay to you?**

_Of course not. I know that somewhere under all that silky brown hair and those woobly, crinkly eyebrowed expressions is a very masculine, very un-gay man. _

**Now you sound like Dean.**

_I aim to please._

**Are you really a Dean-girl?**

_I don't know. When he was a fictional character, he sounded hot. But now that he's into Bubble Guppies, I think I'm over him._

**Do you think you'd ever consider being a Sam-girl?**

_What do you mean? _

**I'm saying you could come to the Dark Side, Princess.**

_Dark Side? You mean, like the "we have cookies" dark side? _

**Well, yeah, I have those too. **

_Are they chocolate chip? I might flip for chocolate chip._

**Hey, Annie.**

Hey what, Sam?

**What r u wearing? :P**

_You don't give up, do you?_

O**f course not. I'm a Winchester.**

_:o You're a pain in the ass, if you ask me._

**That's what Bobby says.**

_So what do you want? Besides to get laid, that is._

**Honestly?**

_Yes._

**I want to assert my masculinity.**

_So stop wearing mittens._

**Haha.**

_Well, my lawn needs to be mowed. You can come over and do that. Maybe rotate my tires, change my oil...will that help?_

**You know all those things could be sexual metaphors?**

_Seriously. I'm talking about my grass._

**How about the oil change? The tire rotation?**

_I think you're starting to think like ur brother._

**I can guarantee that he and I are not thinking alike right now**. **He's saving Barbie from a dinosaur with a Rescue Hero as we speak.**

_At least he's not trying to flush the cat._

**Don't be so sure. Bobby doesn't have a cat. But if he did…**

_He's still doing what he does. Saving people, hunting things. Although if he wanted to let the dinosaur eat Barbie, I'd be grateful._

**I'll encourage it.**

_My point is when he's an adult again you'll be leaving Sioux Falls to do what you guys do. Stopping the evil dinosaurs from eating the innocent bimbos._

**Probably.**

_I don't think *you* give *yourself*enough credit. You and Dean—you're the real Rescue Heroes._

**I guess.**

_Cool vehicle, awesome array of tools. You've got it going on, Dude._

**I'd like a jetpack. That would be cool. Even though Dean's afraid of flying. **

_You really *are* evil._

**Bwahahahaha. Hey, Annie?**

_Yes, Darth?_

**What if I told you I wasn't looking for a girlfriend, but a friend who happens to be a girl?**

_I can do that. I'd like to be your friend who is a girl._

**Good. That will work.**

_Good. Although…_

**What?**

_Remember what I wrote to u b4? Sam Winchester, you're my only hope?_

**Sure. And then you told me you were wearing a bathrobe and two coffee buns.**

_I never told you *where* I'm wearing those coffee buns…_

** I *knew* it! I'll be right over.**

"Yes! That's my boy!" Bobby punched the air. "Way to go!" And he locked the front door; Sam wouldn't be home tonight.

* * *

_***I know there was a mish mosh of text shorthand, here, and I apologize. But for the sake of your eyes, dear readers, I decided to write out as much as possible. With the same goal in mind-your ease of use-I also used (or tried to use) proper grammar. (Although-confession-I write my text messages with commas and periods too. blush)_

_Thank you! _


	10. Chapter 10

_The author would like to thank Jared Padelecki, who recently tweeted about the event in which he, Jensen Ackles, (and, I believe, Misha Collins) along with their lovely wives, took their children to a restaurant which doesn't appear to be the kind of place to happily (if at all) feature dinosaur-shaped nuggets and fries on its menu. Your attempt to re-establish your adult lives with your babies in tow has given my Muse (the bitch) a kick in her lazy Muse butt. Because though I do, in fact, respect you all, I can't help thinking: _Are you out of your effin' minds?

_I'd also like to apologize to readers for the deluge of expository prose. What can I say…I'm not planning a scene where information can come up later on in more active and exciting way, so here it is…sitting, thinking and expository-ing. (We're not going to talk about the heavy-handed dialogue, either, thank you very much.) I invite you to think of this as a self-tour in a minimally staffed museum. Get the information you need and move along, move along…_

_And so with no further explanation or apologies, I present to fanfic readers everywhere (or at least, here)—_

**_CHAPTER TEN: In which Sam, Dean, Cas, Bobby and a hapless cast of OC's try to eat a nice meal in a fancy restaurant in which there is, perhaps, a case…_**

* * *

"So, there's a case here?" Bobby tugged on the lapels of his suit jacket. "Marchetti's seems like a kinda nice restaurant for a ghost."

"What? Ghosts can't have standards?" Annie reached out to fix the older man's collar. "There. Stop fiddling with yourself. You look fine."

"I don't know. There's a certain feeling that you get when you've been hunting long enough. It's a sense of something off. And right now, I'm not having it." He harrumphed and rolled his shoulders. "The only henky thing going on is this damned suit. It used to fit fine, but now it's snug. I think it shrank."

Annie raised an eyebrow and avoided a pointed stare at Bobby's burgeoning beer belly. "Well…I don't believe in ghosts. But then again, I shouldn't be believing in the Winchesters, either, and here they are, hex and all." She bent and picked up Amelia before she could trip one of the elderly people following Greg, the restaurant's suited host and owner, to their table.

"I'm not saying there are no ghosts. I'm just saying, this doesn't feel like that kind of a place. The atmosphere seems too...comfortable. Or something." Bobby scanned the rest of the patrons waiting to be seated. "Hell's bells, this place packs 'em in."

"And thank God for that. If it didn't, I wouldn't be able to afford child care. A few seats opened up on the bench if you want to sit down." Annie gestured to the seats along the lobby wall. "Which is rather silly, if you think about it—paying for child care so I can work to pay for child care." Annie couldn't stop babbling. And she really couldn't believe she was here with Bobby Singer, of all people, a man many in Sioux Falls considered a troublesome old drunk. It was all an act, she knew, but still. A few days ago, she was just a single mom working for a living, and _now_ she was hanging out with the characters populating some of her favorite books.

A thought struck her. If Bobby was a character from a book and yet, he was an irascible old grump that she'd known about since childhood, did that mean she was a character in a story, too?

If she was a character in a story, she thought, it would have been nice if her author had given her bigger boobs.

"Where the hell are Sam and Cas?" Bobby let her sit first and get her daughter settled on her lap, then sat beside her.

"Cas had a bubble gum malfunction in the parking lot, so they ducked into the men's room."

"He didn't get gum stuck in his hair again, did he? The winged idjit."

"Aw, Bobby. Be nice. They don't have gum in heaven. Besides, _this _time he was trying to blow a bubble for the kids."

"What the hell. Seriously?"

"He's not used to having a vessel." Annie shrugged. "Besides, it's Dean's fault. He popped the thing. You should have seen it. It was huge. Castiel must have shoved a whole pack of _Hubba Bubba_ into his mouth to do it. It was heroic, actually—"

"I'm not buying what you're selling, missy." Bobby frowned down at her. "You're too nice, you know that?"

"Thank you." She smiled. "And you're a miserable old coot, just like everyone says."

"Thank you." He rolled his eyes. "You only say that because I told you you're too nice. You realize that your one fresh comment doesn't negate my original opinion of your overly nice-ness?"

She smiled and nodded, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. Bobby scoped out the photos on the walls—family portraits, mostly, of the matriarch and patriarch of the Marchetti family, their children, and their grand and great-granchildren.

Annie had seen all the photos many times before, of course. She waited tables at the restaurant, and she knew the Marchetti family probably better than her _own_ family. So instead of gawping at the portraits, she fixed the barrette holding Melia's wispy hair into something other than a static-electricity styled shock 'do.

It was odd, sitting here waiting _for_ a table instead of waiting _on_ one, but when she'd mentioned that some of the staff were worried about what they thought of as paranormal activity to Sam, he'd been excited about it. Mostly, he was excited about the thought of eating at a nice restaurant instead of his usual greasy spoon, and she didn't have the heart to refuse him even though being seen with the handsome hunter wasn't going make her life any easier.

Bringing the kids had also been his idea…some nonsense about being a better hunter with Dean around. She had a feeling he just didn't want to ask Bobby to babysit, and she didn't blame him. Dean was a handful and Bobby wasn't young anymore. He wasn't Methuselah, either, but—well, Dean was Sam's responsibility just as Sam had always been Dean's; the Winchester brothers took care of one another, and she could respect that.

Sam's commitment to his brother was even more endearing because Amelia's dad stood at a podium less than ten feet away from them, and he didn't even appear to notice she existed. It would be easy to say that was because his wife was _also_ working at the restaurant, but since absolutely no one knew about his and Annie's one-night—_make it more like ten minutes_—stand, she doubted it. Nope. Greg was just an asshole who happened to have contributed part of her daughter's DNA and then married someone else shortly thereafter.

A sudden and huge cold draft wafted over her. Annie looked up at the air vent overhead. "Oh my gosh. I can't believe they put the air on. It's almost Halloween!" She shivered.

Seconds later, Bobby's coat pocket made an electronic squeal. "That's no a/c," he said, reaching into his pocket to show her the EMF meter he'd stashed there. "That's a cold spot and, if I'm right, there's a ghost standing right near you."

"Feels like it's standing right on top of me." Annie shivered again, this time not from a chill but because of the goosebumps crawling over her skin. _A ghost? Seriously?_ "You're kidding, right? You really think Marchetti's _is_ haunted?"

"Could be," he said, as his pocket squealed in complaint. He looked over at a nearby patron, who was staring at him, and he nodded. "Toy. In the pocket." He smiled at Melia. "Hers. You know."

Annie would have worried about the cold spot situation, except she noticed something far more dismaying. "Um...Bobby? There's water seeping from under the men's room door."

"Aw, balls," he said, and stood. "I'll go check it out." He got up and went into the men's room; Annie was relieved that his far more obscene exclamation was muffled as the door swung shut behind him.

"Wheah'd da man go?" Melia asked.

"To look for Dean," Annie answered.

"Dean do poop?"

"Maybe." Melia was the same age as Dean—well, sort of, if you didn't get too technical—but her language skills were more advanced. As was her understanding of toileting. Sam had done research, of course, and determined that the female brain was more adept at learning language, adapting to social demands and making connections. The male brain, he said, was mostly wired to hit things with sticks and make things blow up.

Sam's brain, obviously, was more female than male—and he'd asked her to please keep that information to herself when Dean was restored to his original adult form. She was pretty sure—from the books, anyway—that his brother had long ago figured that out Sam had kind of a girl brain by himself, but she didn't bother to point it out. She'd rather just enjoy his company without worry as long as she could…which was, in fact, worrisome.

Because she was afraid she was falling in love with Sam Winchester. And didn't _that _suck?

The cold draft/ghost swept over her again, then seemed to take up residence in Bobby's vacated seat—which was weird. Even weirder was the way Melia suddenly sat up and started chatting to empty air.

"Hewwow," she said cheerfully to the unoccupied seat.

_Holy shit._ "Sam! Bobby! Get out here!" She stood up, Melia riding her hip, and stared at the empty chair. Her skin prickled.

"My name Me-la," Melia said.

The men's room door banged open. "Oumph!" Bobby and Sam wedged in the doorway, shoulder-to-shoulder before Sam gave an extra pull, shoving Bobby into the wall. Behind them, came Cas—looking sheepish and still somewhat sticky—and Dean, who ran around Sam's long legs to hug Annie's.

"Hi, Fanny," he huffed, and reached around her legs to place his hands on the back of her thighs. She could feel him lifting the hem of her skirt, but she ignored this in light of the fact that Amelia was talking to invisible people. Invisible _dead_ people.

_Holy shit. She sees dead people._ Annie's knees turned jello-y. "Sam. Melia's talking to someone who _isn't there_."

Behind her, Bobby's EMF-filled pocket squealed again.

"Well, that's interesting. And the EMF is ruling out imaginary friend...we'll have to check to see if there's another reason for it to go off." Sam frowned. "But it feels henky, too. What do you think, Bobby?"

"Henky. Though not as much as my suit. Or, what's going on in men's room. What the hell did Dean flush down the toilet? And why weren't you watching him?"

"I was working on getting the gum out of Cas' eyebrows." Sam shrugged. He turned to look down at Annie. "You don't suppose she _is_ just talking to an imaginary friend?"

"She's never done it before." Annie felt Dean's hands moving up the back of her thighs to her ass. She reached to push them away, drawing Sam's attention to his big little brother.

"Dean! Stop that!" He frowned at his brother. "That's rude!"

"Sir, your table is ready." Greg appeared next to them. He spoke to Sam, completely ignoring Annie and Amelia.

Annie wanted to scream at him. _Here's your daughter, you piece of crap. Can you even pretend to look at her? _

But no, Greg barely flickered a gaze in his daughter's direction; he smiled as if Annie didn't work for him, as if he hadn't boned her once and then pretended he never did such a thing and _then_ spread rumors about how he'd seen her with a truck driver passing through town when she'd turned up pregnant later.

If this wasn't the only job available to her, she'd tell Greg Marchetti to stick it. But it was, and she'd deal with it.

"This way, please," he said, then turned to lead them through the crowded restaurant. Annie followed behind Sam, Bobby and Cas, as far from Greg as possible. Her progress was further slowed by Dean's insistence on touching her pantyhosed legs all the way. When she finally pulled him up to ride her other hip he grinned, and immediately stuck his hand in her blouse. And grinned. Wider.

"So help me, Dean Winchester. When you grow back up, if I find out you've been playing us all along, I'm going to kick you where it counts." She couldn't even pull his hand away because she had an arm around each child to keep them in place. Then again, if Dean fell on his head he wouldn't be feeling her up in front of a room full of people. "You're a perv, and it's sickening."

He smiled and rested his head on her shoulder, blinking in a way which would have been innocent and extraordinarily cute if she could be sure he wasn't working his toddlerhood for all it was worth. "Wuv oo, Fanny."

"_My_ Mommy," Melia frowned.

"Oh dear God."

"No. _My_ Fanny!" Dean lifted his head.

"No. _My_ Annie," Sam purred, and she realized he was standing attentively behind the chair he'd pulled out for her. _Aw, hell._ She sped up to reach their table, and when he smiled at her with his eyes soft and warm, she realized she was right back to that falling in love thing.

Gosh, her emotions were bouncing from hatred for Greg to love for Sam. What the heck? She'd managed to work with Greg since she'd discovered she was pregnant and worse, learned he didn't care—and she'd managed to keep herself under control around him. But tonight, as she, her daughter and her current—whatever Sam was—were patrons at the restaurant, all the detritus inside her was flowing fast, free, and loose. She shook her head. _Focus, Annie. Just…focus. _

She shivered as the draft wafted over her again, chilling her down to the bones and making her nipples tighten against her blouse. _Wonderful. All this and headlights, too. _And then she felt a small, warm, creepy hand making its way along her skin…

"Dean! No!" Sam rescued her from his brother, lifting him off her hip and onto his. "I'm sorry, Annie. I think it's because you look so...I mean, you're...um...and you smell nice and...your hair..." The handsome man turned as red as a schoolboy.

"Thank you, Sam." She smiled at him, feeling her own face turn red. She helped him strap Dean into a toddler-sized seat, then did the same for Melia, and together—finally—they sat down.

"I'll keep Mr. Hands on this side, far away from you."

He sounded so jealous of his little big brother and when he made one of his squishy-worried faces, Annie laughed. Their odd, temporary relationship made the normal, sweet, new-relationship things hard to say and, ill advised. They'd already talked about making sure they didn't get too comfortable—or gushy—with each other. Which made it hard to talk, sometimes.

Annie's coworker, Darla, arrived with bread baskets and menus. Her gaze went immediately to Sam and her eyes widened; when she plopped the breadbasket on the table next to Annie's elbow, she summed it all up with a meaningful look and warning. "Be careful. That's _hot_!"

"I know," Annie answered, feeling glum. _Too hot. Too good. Too bad._

Bobby cracked open his menu. "Dean's like Velcro when it comes to pretty girls. He's always been that way."

"Perverted, you mean?" Sam moved the bread basket out of Amelia's reach, but handed her a roll just the same. "Here, honey. You heard the nice lady. Hot! Ouch! Be careful."

"Cawful," she agreed, and took the roll. It filled her little fist. She nibbled at it. "Mmm."

"Me! Me!" Dean squealed, and Sam handed him one, too. Seconds later, Dean let it fly; it landed in the floral centerpiece at the neighboring table.

"Dean!" Sam rose to pluck the offending bread from the neighbors' flowers. "I'm so sorry." He gave them an apologetic smile.

"More!" Dean demanded.

"No," Sam answered. "Wow, Annie. This menu's pretty extensive." He kept his eyes glued to it even when Dean kicked the table hard enough to make the serving ware jangle and the water glasses wobble.

"You mean, _expensive_." Bobby grouched.

"I would like a roll, Sam," Cas said, from the other side of Dean.

Sam handed down the basket. "So…what was going on when we came out of the men's room?"

"Melia was talking to an empty chair."

"That's unusual." Bobby noted, and closed the menu. "Are we getting appetizers? I hear the calamari's excellent here."

"It is. Nonna's recipe. Like every other. The best." Annie nodded. "You can order the pepperoncini peppers on the side."

"Isn't calamari fried squid?" Sam frowned. "And who's Nonna? The chef?"

"I remember when my Father invented squid," Cas mused around a mouthful of bread. "He added the ink as an afterthought, at my brother Gabriel's suggestion. That big squirt of ink to the face is the perfect defense. Unless you're the one getting inked, of course. Then it's just messy and very confusing." The angel gazed off into space with a wistful expression. "But the squid...they're such delicate little creatures, so defenseless in so many ways..."

"And so delicious," Bobby added. "Let's get two orders. Sasquatch might eat one all by himself, once he gets over the battered and fried in hot oil part."

Annie's head spun from trying to follow all the variants in the conversation. She took a roll from the basket just to give herself something to focus on. "Nonna Marchetti's portrait is hanging in the lobby. You saw her, Bobby."

He looked over the top of the menu at her. "Nonna? That's right, Nonna is what some Italians call their grandmas." He paused. "Is she alive?"

"Nonna died a few years ago, and her grandchildren took over," Annie supplied, and noticed the way Bobby and Sam's eyes met. "What? You think she's the one haunting the restaurant?" The thought was unsettling. Nonna had treated Annie like one of her own grandchildren and the restaurant didn't feel the same without her. Or anything, for that matter. Annie missed Nonna terribly. But that didn't mean she wanted the old woman to be restless in death. "Shouldn't she be in heaven?"

"Heaven isn't prison," Cas noted. "Though it can be, for some, especially if they've been placed in Heaven's prison. But souls can come and go, if they choose. It's just unusual for them to want to leave. Because Heaven _is_ heavenly, after all. Still, there's no reason for Nonna not to be able to drop into her family's establishment and visit."

"There is if she's scaring the willies out of the staff," Bobby answered. "Isn't that what you said, Annie?"

"Sort of. She's not—I mean—_it's_ not, whatever it is. Whoever. Whatev—aw, hell. I don't know, Bobby. It's just the cold draft thing—which I didn't really notice until today. And other stuff, like the specials board getting erased with no one around, or menu cards disappearing, or..." She trailed off. "Funny. Now that I think of it that only happens when Greg and his wife introduce new items on the menu."

"Maybe she doesn't like the way her grandson is running the place." Sam closed his menu. "What are some other things experienced?"

"The stoves going on and off by themselves. Dishes just taken out of the dishwasher put back in to re-wash. Spices added to sauces. Empty wine carafes suddenly refilled. Bread dough that's risen one second is flattened as if punched down the next...and..." She trailed off as a dozen odd, myriad things occurred to her, things her coworkers had talked about and she'd dismissed as something explainable. But then, here was Sam Winchester sitting beside her. There was no denying it. "Oh my God. Nonna is haunting the restaurant!" Annie turned to Sam, her heart in her throat. "What do we do?"

* * *

_Indeed. What can they do? I, for one, think they should place an order. How long do you think Dean will sit there quietly? How long will Cas sit there quietly? I hope my Muse doesn't sit _here_, quietly. The witch. My goal is to post the rest of the chapter on Monday, so check in again. _

**_Special thanks to Marlee James (who is writing a story which breaks my heart and makes it thump with every chapter. It's that good. If you haven't read it, check it out_****_—it will suck you in and never let you go...) Marlee, I promise, there will be a nice, quiet moment with Dean and Sam soon. If I ever finish this chapter, that is. _****Flutterby Cupcake****_, you know the one I mean. ;)  
_**


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note: Thank you to all who have taken the time to review and critique and just say "hey"; you keep me writing, for which I'm grateful. It feels good to flex my writing muscles after a very long time of inactivity and you're like my personal trainers telling me to go, go, go._

_Those readers with small children should recognize the book Sam reads in this chapter: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, by Bill Martin, Jr. If they don't, I demand (DEMAND) they get a copy,_ immediately, _and read it to their little people. I promise, the rest of us will wait here for you..._

_I can imagine Sam (MY version of Sam) choosing to read this book to Dean because__—of course__—he's done his research and recognizes the importance of predictive rhyme and sound repetition for the development of pre-readers' skills. I know he's hopeful that somehow__—this time around__—he'll plant the seed of a love of reading in his brother and someday they'll have more to discuss on their long road trips besides the merits of pornographic anime as an art form (or not), or debating whether or not the burrito Sam plans to have at their next dining stop will result in virulent gas, requiring him to ride in the back seat with the windows open. Or on the roof._

_Okay. Is everyone back, now? Did you get that book and read it to your little ones? Wasn't it fun and bouncy? I can just imagine _my_ Sam bouncing as he reads it; maybe Melia (probably not Dean, but anything's possible) too. It's just that kind of book. I hope you enjoyed it. You'll be reading it again. And again. And again. And again..._Bwahahahahaha...

* * *

**ELEVEN**

Sam shrugged. "It sounds as if Nonna's keeping an eye on things, is all." He frowned. "Was she a bit of a control freak?"

"The truth is, she ruled with an iron fist. _Nothing _happened at Marchetti's—or anywhere in her family—without Nonna being involved." The cold draft swept over Annie once more, and with it a gusty scent of strong perfume. _Nonna's perfume._ It lingered over their table and drifted up her nostrils where it sat, making her eyes water.

"Smells like a French whorehouse on a hot summer day," Bobby exclaimed and slammed his menu shut. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a winner. I believe Nonna has just given us a 'sign of her presence' as they say on the boob tube, and holy shit, it stinks. I'm getting the steak _pizzaiole_."

Annie looked around, alarmed. "Bobby! That's not nice! Don't say that about Nonna's perfume!" _Because Nonna will be pissed and that's never good._

"Why not? It's true. And to be honest, it beats the alternatives. Some spooks stink like rotten meat."

Sam nodded. "Decomposing bodily fluids and other by-products of the decaying process. Do they have anything that isn't fried, or covered in cheese, Annie?"

She looked from one man to the other. "Are you serious? How can you talk about...well...what you're talking about, and _food_ in the same breath?"

"It's what we do, Annie." Sam reached over and took her hand, caressing it gently. He had such calloused fingers. Such a hard hand.

She looked across the table at Cas, and then at his his swan-folded napkin swimming majestically across the tablecloth for Dean and Melia. Swimming. Like it was _real_.

"Hi. I'm Jackie. Would you like to order something to drink while waiting for Darla?" Greg's wife approached the table, a huge white grin on her salon-tanned face. Ordinarily, Annie was intimidated by Jackie. She had perfect skin (despite the fake tan), perfect teeth, perfect hair, nails, clothes and just about everything else. But right now, the only thing she could think of preventing Jackie from noticing one of the napkins cruising across a tabletop pond. But, it appeared, all she had eyes for was Cas. She leaned close until her man-made, perfect cleavage hovered around the side of his head. "What can I get you?"

"Hi, Jackie! You look great today!" Annie squeaked._ Please, don't notice the swan, please don't notice the swan..._

Jackie turned her head. "Oh. Hi, Annie. You look nice all dressed up like that. I barely recognized you."

_Bitch._ "Thanks. I'm here with..." Two Hunters and an angel, a de=aged man and your husband's unrecognized spawn. "My friends."

Sam cleared his throat, getting her attention; her eyes widened as she realized he was holding Annie's hand. Annie felt a flush of satisfaction. _Ha._

"Drinks would be nice. I don't know about Bobby, but I think Annie and I will have a carafe of your house wine to start. The kids will have milk. Do you have cups with straws?" Sam said.

"Sure thing." Jackie winked at him—_bitch_—and turned to Bobby. "Oh! Mr. Singer. What'll you have?"

"How 'bout some iced tea? With lemon." He gave Annie a grouchy look. "Because _some_ people think I'm a cranky old coot, and probably an old drunk as well."

"I never said that...Annie shivered as Nonna—for that's what the draft was, there was no way to deny it—swept up past her and raced away, along with the cloying, choking, overpoweringly sweet scent of an old lady's perfume. And then, she watched the ornaments hanging from the chandelier-like light fixtures begin to sway in a breeze that shouldn't have existed indoors. They tinkled faintly. "If you want a drink, Bobby, have one. I know I will be drinking lots, very, very soon."

"And what about you?" Jackie put her hand on Cas' shoulder. "What would _you_ like, handsome?"

Cas started, and turned his head; his nose bumped one of her breasts. Annie held her breath waiting for a nosebleed to start, but apparently his vessel was strong enough to withstand an assault from Jackie's silicone implants. He peered up at her. "Uh...Do you have duice?"

"Duice!" Dean lifted his hands over his head and cheered. "Hu'waay! Wika da duice!"

"Aw…aren't you nice? But I think the kids are already getting milk," Jackie said. "I can get an extra cup for you to share with the little guy though, if you want." She jiggled her enhancements and blinked her big, dark brown eyes at him; her magenta-lipsticked mouth spread into a teasing grin. "I'd be happy to get you anything you'd like."

Annie heard a creak and noticed the light fixture hanging directly over Jackie's head swinging slowly and methodically, back and forth. Like the pendulum in the Edgar Allan Poe story. _Ironic._ On a good day, Jackie barely spoke to the waitresses and staff, because she felt they were beneath her. Just like she was beneath that light. Annie swallowed and wondered how perfect she'd look, squished by a heavy, faux-crystal chandelier.

"Uh...okay." Cas nodded. "Duiceboxes are also an acceptable beverage."

"Well, then. I'll be right back," Jackie looked puzzled. Worse, she was completely unaware that she was in danger. All she knew was that the object of her desire wanted nothing but juice with a straw. Annie exhaled in relief when Greg's wife moved away, her hips swinging in that _just-too-sexy_ way that had every man in the restaurant watching her. Except for Cas—who had disappeared at a word from Sam and reappeared carrying the Diaper Bag of Doom. And Sam, who was busy searching through said DBoD until he found the right board book. And Bobby, who was frowning up at the light fixture which hadn't quite stopped swinging.

"That old lady smell's gone away. Did you notice?" the older hunter said.

"Hard not to," Sam nodded, and opened the book. "Look, Dean. Melia. 'A told B and B told C, "I'll meet you at the top of the coconut tree."'?"

"_Thhhpt,_" Dean said. "No ABC. ABC poop twee. Cwayons!"'

"No, Dean. Crayons after the story. Look—Me-la likes it."

"Raaaay!" Melia clapped and wiggled with excitement as Sam turned the heavy page. This was one of her favorite books. "Whee! Say D! Beat to the tuh-ree!"

"That's right…" he smiled at her and nodded. "'Whee! Said D to EFG. I'll beat you to the top of the coconut tree!'" Sam kept reading the story in a happy, singsong voice.

Dean glowered mutinously. "No Me-la 'raaaay'." He turned to his angel/caretaker/entertainer. "Ass! Do da duck!"

"Wait, Dean." Cas cradled his chin on his fist; apparently he loved _Chicka Chicka Boom Boom_ as much as Melia.

"Is everyone ready to order?" Darla re-appeared, reaching for the menus on the table and attracting Dean's attention. Just like the cavalry, Annie thought. Riding in just in time to save them all from an epic Winchester "no duck" meltdown.

"Annie, what do you think the kids should have? I'll let you order for them. And for me." Sam gave her a quietly confident smile that melted her heart.

_Dammit, Sam you're killing me.  
_

"You can order for Cas, too," he purred.

"Okay." Annie took a deep breath and composed herself to order from the menu she knew by heart and by taste. Nonna had made so many delicious foods, but she had her favorites and she ordered those for Sam, Cas and the children. Or tried to. Dean was being Dean, untying Darla's apron and fluttering his eyelashes at her as she took their order. Predictably and somewhat disgustingly, Darla was charmed by the little boy with the dimples and huge, green eyes. She cooed over him while he touched her hair and patted her cheek. It seemed to take forever for the woman to write down their order and leave.

As soon as she did, Annie blurted, "Seriously, Sam. Do you think he's aware of what he's doing? Honestly, I think he was trying to peek down her shirt."

"Well, he _is_ still Dean. In a small package. You know, I've done research and it's been discovered that children can have sexual impulses as young as a year old." Sam lowered the book and Melia pouted.

"As if he isn't acting creepy enough. Thanks for filling us in on that, Sam," Bobby said. Then he made a face as the heavy perfumed odor returned with a chill. "Nonna's back. Smell that?"

"Stronger than ever." Sam nodded.

Annie couldn't answer. Her eyes were starting to tear from the potent _parfum d'elderly lady_. "Can you make it go away?" The cold seemed to blanket the entire table.

"Hullo, wady!" Melia chirped suddenly.

Cas sat up. "Sam. This isn't good. It's Nonna, and she's—" He blinked and then lowered his gaze. "It's too late."

"Too late? I'd say it's just in time!"

Annie turned to stare at her daughter, who was looking around the table with a wise and knowing expression. Until she turned and fixed her gaze on Annie herself. No, wait. That wasn't Melia's, it was..._Nonna's_ intense gaze.

In her daughter's innocent little blue eyes. _What the_…words failed her. Annie sucked in a breath but it didn't reach her lungs, or her brain as her heart stopped beating.

"What are you staring at, honey? You _did _say nothing ever happened without me getting involved. And_ mannaggia la miseria,_ I really need to get involved now. This place is all _fanabola_." Melia-Nonna waved her little hands about. "These table clothes are hideous, for one thing. And the flower arrangements on the tables look like weeds." She turned her head—Nonna turned Melia's head—and her gaze caught on Bobby. "Well. You clean up nice, Singer."

"Uh...thank you." Bobby said gruffly.

"And you—" her attention turned to Sam—"need a haircut. But you're a handsome-looking strapping thing all the same." She pushed her small elbow into Annie's side. "Try to hang onto this one if you can. He'll keep you plenty warm at night. And look at the size of his feet! _Madonn_'." She peeked under the table, and chortled. "You know what big feets means. A big _braggiol'._"

Annie gagged. It was Nonna speaking, in Nonna's voice. But it was coming from Melia's mouth, the last place from which Annie wanted to hear a discussion about the size of any part of Sam's anatomy.

"Sam…Sam? Sam! Do something!" Annie choked out in a raspy gasp. She tried to stand, but her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor.

"Could someone please pass the salt?" Bobby murmured.

_Salt? There's a dead woman in my baby's body talking about the size of Sam's...whatever, and you want _salt_? _

"Sam." Annie whispered. From here, she couldn't see what was going on. She needed to stand but it was if her bones had melted and she'd forgotten how to get to her feet. From her position by the table leg, she could see Sam reaching into the diaper bag and then, bending to look inside one of its many zippered pockets.

_What are you going in there for? We don't need a wipe, we need to get Nonna out of Melia. She's possessing Melia! _Annie lifted herself from the floor by grasping the sides of the chair and pulling herself upright; she hung on so tightly her knuckles ached. Just in time she saw Cas toss the older hunter the salt shaker. Bobby plucked it out of the air, simultaneously twisting off the cover and tossing a spray of salt over her little girl.

"Yay!" Dean cheered as a grey vapor floated up out of his friend and away.

Melia started to cry as she reached out to Annie. Annie unclenched her hands slowly, with difficulty; she pulled Melia out of the highchair and clutched her as if that could stop Nonna from possessing her daughter again. She was about to brush the salt out of her hair and then decided against it. She wasn't sure, but maybe that would provide some protection against the spirit. It seemed to have done something to make the ghost leave her body.

She buried her face in Melia's neck and tried not to cry. Someone's hand pressed on her shoulder—Bobby's, she thought, since Sam wasn't close enough to touch her; it didn't matter. As long as someone was acknowledging she was scared to death and ready to lose it…

"Quick thinking, Cas. Didn't think that was gonna work. Sam, what happened?" Bobby said, squeezed her shoulder and let go.

"The bag of sea salt got caught on…hold on…a Matchbox car. Oh, shit, the bag ripped! There's salt all over the inside pocket." Annie heard the ting of silver place settings being jostled together, then a bang. The table vibrated. She lifted her face to see the DBofD on the table in front of Sam; his place setting had been pushed aside. He began digging through the bag, pulling items out and dropping them on the white tablecloth. As his pile of assorted Hunter-plus-toddler-care-gear grew, Annie watched him in stunned silence. He was so freaking calm! It was like this sort of thing happened every day.

_It does happen every day. To him. _Holy shit._ This really _is_ his life. He does this for a _job_._ Suddenly, waiting tables in a busy Italian restaurant while rubbing elbows with your daughter's father who pretends neither one of you exists in any capacity, other than employee, didn't seem like so bad. In fact—it was preferable to a life hunting and destroying scary monsters and things who wanted to kill you, not ignore you.

"I've got an iron knife. We can press that to her with that if Nonna comes back." Sam handed a small, wooden-handled knife across the table to Bobby without looking up from his task.

"An iron knife? What, are you expecting a visit from the tooth fairy?"

"Um…" Sam finally did look up, his expression sheepish. "Well, no, now that you mention it. Did we tell you what happened to Dean in Duluth?"

"Duluth?" Bobby frowned. "What the hell does that have to do with the price of tea in Poughkeepsie?"

"I don't believe Sam was talking about tea, Bobby. In Poughkeepsie, or anywhere. He was talking about how Dean dispatched the fairy in charge of dentation collection in Minnesota," Cas interjected.

"Aw hell. Are you telling me Dean kacked the Tooth Fairy?" Bobby waved his arms.

"It was an accident!" Sam said, and went back to getting to the salt at the bottom of the bag. "But yes, he did, and now we're the target of some very pissed off Fae. Oh, here's Dean's other Lightening McQueen sock. I was looking for this." He pulled it out, shook salt out of it, and tucked it into his pocket.

"Wightening go fast," Dean said and tilted his head as his brother sorted through the things on the table. "What Dam doin'?"

"Dam mak'n da mess," Amelia noted, shifting out of Annie's tight grip, no worse for the wear. "Want a woll, Dam. Pwease."

"Sure, Melia." He passed a roll to the little girl with one hand without skipping a beat; he even mananged to pass one to Dean and pull a battered-looking flask out of the bag in one synchronized move. "Still hot, honey. Be careful. You too, Dean."

"Woll hot," Dean agreed. "Ass blow it."

The angel obliged with a fierce gust of wind. The roll flew out of Dean's fist, landing on the plate of someone oblivious to their haunting, happily celebrating an anniversary on the far side of the restaurant. Dean giggled, Amelia laughed her deep belly laugh, and for a moment, things felt almost normal. Or at least, safe.

Normal was not something that happened in the Winchester's world, Annie realized. Rather, what was normal for them was abnormal for everyone else. So if she wanted Sam to stick around, if she wanted to be a part of his life, she'd have to learn to make the abnormal, normal.

"Next time, blow easy, ya idjit." Bobby reached for the basket and got another roll out for Dean, puffing on it a few times before handing it across the table to the boy. "You don't need to be the Breath of God, you're just cooling the thing down so the kid doesn't burn his tongue."

"Duly noted, Bobby." The angel nodded apologetically. "I'm not smiting the roll, I'm just adjusting its temperature."

"Exactly."

"There. I think that'll do it." Sam turned over the diaper bag—with difficulty, since it was still half-full and huge—and shook a substantial pile of pink salty pebbles out onto one of his pushed-aside plates. "That'll hold her off if she comes back. Until we run out, anyway."

"Uh-oh. What's going on over there?" Bobby craned his neck to peer out at the lobby. A small crowd of people—mostly staff—had formed, and they were shooing patrons who were attempting to leave back into the dining area.

Annie thought about going over to check, but then she'd have to leave Amelia. Abnormal to normal, she reminded herself. She had three competent—well, _two_ competent Hunters and an Angel of the Lord to watch her baby; she could leave her in their care for at least a minute while she investigated. And she was tired of freaking out. She knew who Sam was—or thought she did—and had a better idea of what to expect when she spent time with him. This. Crazy, abnormal, scary. She would accept that, because she needed to.

More importantly, she needed to be a role model for her little girl. Because how else would Melia learn to be a strong, competent woman who would never allow herself to be ignored by her baby's daddy if she didn't see Annie being strong and competent herself? Still, she gave her daughter an extra-tight squeeze before standing. Her choice of guardian was simple; she held Amelia out to Cas. He looked surprised but folded the little girl into his arms and—Annie couldn't see but got the sense—he enfolded her in his wings as well.

"I'll go find out what's happening. And if Nonna or anyone tries to get her again, smite the hell out of them." She left the table and headed for the chaos in the lobby.


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's note: In my other life, I write romance and even erotica, so I really do know some more interesting/colorful words for a man's...well. Mostly nouns. But for some reason, they're not in Annie's vocabulary, and since this is in her point of view I'm not using any of them. (You don't expect me to put them HERE, in my pov, do you?)_

_I'm sure some of you think Greg (and his manly bits) deserve worse, but hey. Did I mention I write normally write romantic _comedy_? Yeah, comedic writers (especially romantic ones) eschew actual emasculation. Even though it may, in fact, be well deserved. Still, when my fingers tapped out this particular punishment, I decided, it's official: __I'm afraid of my brain._

_**Disclaimer: I haven't said this lately and I feel I should. I really don't have any rights to be calling any creation of Eric Kripke's "mine". (Which is probably a good thing, because look what I've done to it**.) _

* * *

**TWELVE**

Annie approached the lobby with trepidation. Why she was afraid, she had no clue. The worst had already happened, in her humble opinion: Nonna had invaded her daughter. The rest of this scenario could only be cake.

Still, she moved cautiously. When she got to the barrier of dining room chairs hastily erected by one of her co-workers, she pushed past it and joined the group clustered in a bewildered semi-circle near the men's room, and stood next to Darla. "What's going on?"

"One of the johns backed up," Darla said in a hushed voice. "But then, when Greg was done fixing the toilet and…well…I can't even…" She hesitated, and turned her wide gray-eyes to look at Annie in astonishment. "It froze! The bathroom got really cold—cold enough to see your breath! And Greg…" She shook her head. "He's stuck."

"What?" Annie frowned. The frigid temperature drop, she got. That was Nonna's doing. But _stuck_? "To what?"

"Well…to himself. And the toilet."

That made no sense.

But then again, did anything make sense lately? She shook her head and pushed her way through the throng of co-workers to enter the men's room.

Jackie stood next to Greg. She shot Annie a look of pure malice and annoyance. "Oh great. _Another_ person comes in to see your pecker." She threw her manicured hands up in the air. "We might as well just take pictures. Put 'em on the internet. Go ahead, take a good look at my husband, the freak." Jackie snarled and stalked out, shouldering Annie aside as she went.

But Annie had eyes only for Greg; she still hated him for what he'd done and who he was, but that didn't mean she wanted him—or his pecker—to come to any harm. So she ignored Jackie to look down where his hand was, cupping…_it_.

As far as _it _went, there wasn't that much to see, all things considered. She bit her lips to keep from smiling. Nonna had been right with her "big feet, big _brasciole_" comment—and her grandson, while generally a tall, dark and handsome-looking man, unfortunately had small feet.

So she could see his hand, cradling himself; just the tip of his penis showed beyond the edge of his thumb.

After that, all bets were off because what she saw was almost hellish. In a frigid, non-fiery, kind of way. Because his flesh was a vivid artic-blue and had a long, icicle-type stream protruding from it; it would have been quite a pretty cascade of ice if it wasn't, in fact, his frozen urine. It plunged-or had been plunging, before it froze solid-into the toilet bowl.

She shivered. From horror. And from cold. In fact, it felt like the air was growing chillier.

"Annie," Greg croaked. "Help."

There were so many things she could say to him at this moment, all of them hateful and filled with things like, "the way you've helped me?" or, "how you've helped your daughter?" or similar sentiments. But, Annie realized, she didn't want to be evil right now. She especially didn't want to be like Jackie. So she bit her lip and shook her head.

"I'm not sure exactly what to do," she said, finally. "Did you try to break the ice?"

He nodded and when he looked at her, she realized his dark eyes were full of tears. "It's frozen _inside_. The whole—me...my—outside and inside. Everything is frozen! I can't. I'm afraid it's going to—to—snap off!"

Well, that was ironic. How many times had she _wished_ she could snap it off, out of spite? And now—she took a step back in case she accidentally touched him and did, somehow, emasculate him. "What if we tried a hair dryer or something to thaw it out?"

"I wouldn't," said a deep male voice behind her. Annie turned to see Jimmy, their new chef, peering over her shoulder. "It's like meat when it's frozen solid. You don't want to flash thaw it because you'll damage the fibers of the flesh, and make it unusable and tough. The best way to thaw it is gradually." He shrugged. "Sucks to be you, dude."

Greg sobbed a breath.

"We could try to put up a space heater, maybe bring up the temp in here. Feels like winter," Jimmy added. "Hey, look, I can see my breath. That's kind of cool!"

Annie closed her eyes. _Nonna. Seriously? I mean, I appreciate this, but isn't it a little drastic?_

The smell of old lady perfume filled the air. Jimmy coughed. "Aw, man. Air fresheners are always a good thing in rest rooms, but that just smells like ass. I'm getting out of here before I hurl." He turned and left.

Annie frowned. "It doesn't smell like ass." _It smells like Nonna._

"What's going on, Annie? Why is this happening?" Greg whimpered. He sounded pathetic. He _looked_ pathetic. Though, how he could look any other way with his wiener frozen to his hand _and_ the toilet was beyond her.

"Well…" She took a deep breath and startled as what felt like a very sharp, bony, persistent elbow nudged her in the ribs. Nonna was letting her know she needed to speak. But how could she, when the poor guy's pecker was literally blue? "I don't know."

What she _did_ know was that she needed to start talking. _It's the only thing that will save this dick's dick. _She bit back a hysterical giggle. _Frozen bananas, anyone? Oh my gosh. That's so inappropriate. I should be ashamed. I _am_ ashamed. _She stared._ Peckersicle. Oh, am I so going to hell.  
_

_Nudge, nudge._ The ethereal elbow poked her in the side again.

_Focus, Annie. Do what Nonna wants._ So she gave it a try. She started with the thing that she thought the most. "Why, Greg?"

"I don't know. I was taking a leak, and suddenly, this happened."

"No. Not that. I mean, why didn't you…why _haven't _you ever acknowledged Amelia? She's your daughter. You know that. You have to know it! But _why_…you never even said anything to me about what we did, and then, when I found out I was pregnant, you acted like you didn't even care." She remembered how alone she'd felt. Ostracized. Afraid. _Stupid._ And he'd looked down his nose at her. Spread rumors. Treated her like anything but the mother of his unborn child. "In fact, I _know_ you didn't! You don't. _Why? _ What kind of a person are you, anyway?"

The perfume intensified, grew cloying. Gagging, even. She blinked back the tears forming in her eyes.

"I don't know, Annie. Is this really the time to be talking about that?"

"Yes!" Anger settled over her like a blanket, warming her body and her blood. "It is! You act like I don't even exist most of the time—unless you're telling me what to do—and _forget_ about Amelia. She's _our _daughter! You've never once come to see her. Or talked to her. Or _about_ her! Even when she was a baby. You could have at least _called_ to make sure she was okay. "

"Oh come on, Annie," he said. "I'm married. And you could have been with someone else. How do I know the kid is really mine? You might just be saying that so you can get money off of me. Maybe get a piece of the restaurant for yourself."

"You weren't married when we did it. In fact, you didn't get married until right around the time Amelia was born."

The cold in the room intensified. The mirrors began to crackle as frost patterns emerged over them. Annie shivered; Greg's teeth began to chatter, and he whined. "It's getting worse." He looked at her. "This really hurts! It burns!"

"Take responsibility for what you've done, Greg."

"I didn't do anything."

"Don't say that. All I have to do is order a paternity test and then everyone will know she's yours anyway."

"You won't. You haven't yet, so why would you do it now?"

She couldn't believe it. He stood there with his manhood in jeopardy and he wanted to argue with her? Was he stupid? Crazy? Both? "Because it might be the only way to save your wiener, you twit."

"Why?" He narrowed his eyes. "_You_ did this to me? This is happening because of _you_? Something _you_ did?"

"It's got nothing to do with me!" _Well, almost nothing._ "And the only reason I didn't order a test is because I don't have health insurance. I can't afford it! Because I work for you! Slaving away to take care of the daughter you should help support!"

"Why don't you just go on welfare like other girls? That's why you got pregnant anyway—so you wouldn't have to work."

Annie started to shake, but not from cold. "So you're saying I got pregnant so I didn't have to work, but I'm working forty-five plus hours a week doing a backbreaking job that I hate because...I _don't_ want to work? Are you all right?" She gaped at him. "And not for nothing—I barely make a living wage but still make too much to go on welfare. Oh my God. I am so out of here." She turned away. "Forget about it. I hope it snaps off at the root. You're on your own, you jerk. Good luck."

"No! Annie! Please…help me. If you know how to help me, please…" He bit his lip. "I'll give you money. For the baby."

She turned back. "And you'll pay for a paternity test?"

"I'd rather not," he almost whimpered.

"You stupid, stupid man. There's a reason this is happening to you. And you need to man up and take responsibility for your actions—or, at least, your sperm's actions." She glared at him; clouds of warm breath huffed from her mouth. "Or you'll never be able to _man up_ again."

"Annie..."

There was a suddenly whoosh and the rustle of feathered wings; Castiel appeared beside Greg.

"Jesus Christ!" Greg yelped.

Cas shook his head. "No…no. I'm Castiel. I'm an Angel of Him." He considered Greg's predicament, frowned, then shrugged. "I'm not human, but I'm thinking that's _got_ to be uncomfortable."

"Annie?" Greg's eyes were wide, now, and wild; Cas's unexpected appearance—and announcement—on top of everything else was pushing him to the dark side of nutty. "Annie!"

Still angered, she couldn't make herself concerned about that. There were more important people to worry about. "Why aren't you with Amelia? I left you there to protect her!"

"Sam sent me in her to check on you. And Me-la's fine because Nonna is in here, with you." He tilted his head and furrowed his brow at Greg. Then he touched the tip of the man's nose with his index finger. "_Booop_!"

Greg's strained expression eased; he blinked once and then his face went blank.

"What did you do to him?"

"I put him into what you might call 'suspended animation'. His thought patterns were becoming chaotic to the point of no return. This will ease his stress until we can resolve his problem."

There was a snapping sound; Annie turned to see that one of the mirrors had shattered. The perfume scent suddenly lifted, and the temperature in the bathroom suddenly rose by degrees.

Warm enough to shatter frozen glass, she thought.

"Nonna has left the bathroom!" Cas said, then, and disappeared.

* * *

_Ooh. Nonna's like Elvis. (If you're young and have no clue what the hell I'm referring to, please google: Elvis has left the building…) _

_In any case: the tension mounts. Will Cas get to Me-la before Nonna does? Will Sam have enough salt? Will dinner ever be served? And will Greg defrost in time for dessert? Find out in my next chapter__—to be posted soon. _

_And in the meantime, feel free to review. _


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's Note: I like snow days. Even when they change to rain, eventually, I get to take a day from the salt mines and just write. Which is what happened here. And so, you get to see what happened a lot sooner than I expected._

_The story's going to be wrapping up soon; Dean only has a week or so left before he and Sam catch up to that witch and reverse his hex. Bobby will be sure that they don't miss the opportunity to make Dean adult again, I'm sure. But I'm also sure toddler Dean has a few more tricks up his sleeve. Or in his diaper. Ooh. No...maybe that's not such a good thing. _

_Anyway__—-thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. It's been awesome, and has really kept me writing! I never realized, when I started on this story, that I'd be making friends along the way. :)  
_

* * *

**THIRTEEN**

Annie left Greg to defrost and hurried to return to their table. She'd thought Nonna had left the bathroom—and the building—but shrieks coming from the dining room told her: that assumption was false.

She broke into a run and pushed through her co-workers huddled in the doorway like frightened children. Darla grabbed her arm. "Don't go in there!" she pleaded.

"I have to get to Melia!" She pulled free. From her vantage point, she could see her baby standing on the dining room table. Worse, she could see Sam and Bobby crumpled on the floor on opposite sides of the restaurant, apparently thrown there by Nonna. Bobby had a big, plastic salad bowl on his head and was covered with romaine lettuce bits; he appeared to be knocked out. Sam was attempting to stand; the iron knife he'd brandished was buried to the hilt in his shoulder. He looked wobbly, like there were cartoon birds swooping around him. As Annie watched, he shook his head, pushed up and away from the floor, then collapsed again.

Cas, hanging from one of the light fixtures by the neck of his trench coat, was still; he appeared to be watching what was going on below.

The fact that he had the power to get down but wasn't using it didn't concern Annie right now. The only thing that mattered was getting to her little girl and making her safe. But how could she with Sam and Bobby knocked out and helpless?

"You!" Amelia shouted in her small, squeaky voice and pointed her tiny index finger at Jackie. As Annie got closer, she realized the woman was hanging from the back of a chair by _her_ collar. She _didn't_ have the power to get free, and she was choking. Nonna-Amelia carried on, unconcerned. "You! You have sex with my grandson. You tell him you're pregnant, and he marries you—and you lied! You told him you lost the baby. But this girl—" She gestured at Annie—"Really _was_ pregnant, with my granddaughter! But she—she was respectful. She didn't try to take advantage of my family!"

Annie tried to reach for Amelia and discovered that she was immobile. Frozen. Without the ice. _Never underestimate the power of a pissed-off Nonna._

"I—I—" Jackie choked.

"And you knew!"

_She did? Knew that Greg impregnated her and that he had a daughter? _

_Pretty shitty that she pretended to be pregnant, too. Maybe their time line was skewed, somehow. But then…didn't he know I was pregnant before he was with Jackie? She turned up just as I reached my seventh month._

She hadn't told anyone she was pregnant until she couldn't hide it anymore. But that had been late. She didn't really show until she was almost eight months along, and if she wore a big shirt, even then it wasn't obvious. So it was possible Greg hadn't realized she was pregnant until after he'd thought he'd knocked up Jackie. And told everyone, and made arrangements to marry her, first.

Really, though. The man should have kept the thing in his pants. Or taken precautions. True, she should have taken precautions, too. But it didn't happen often enough to have a plan in place, and they _had_ been rather spontaneous that day. In those moments.

"You knew that I'd made sure I wouldn't just take care of my grandchildren, but my great-grandchildren. That my will says that all great-grandchildren inherit their share of my restaurant and that they are to be portioned part of the profits. Because none of my children will struggle to live the way my husband and I did when we first came to this country with _our_ parents!"

_Wait a minute…_That sort of changed things, though. Because that meant Jackie had stolen from Nonna. Not just from Amelia, but from the entire Marchetti family.

What an evil bitch.

She couldn't speak for Greg, who accused her of getting pregnant just to get money from him when in fact he knew he should be giving her money, anyway.

"I—I—" Jackie clutched at her collar.

"But I've fixed it. I've fixed him!" Nonna gestured to the lobby with a fling of Amelia's tiny, outraged arm. "No Marchetti babies for you! You will never have a child with my grandson. And he will _never_ have another child with any woman!"

_Oh. My. God._ Annie would have fallen if she wasn't frozen in place. _Nonna neutered Greg!_

"This one. This girl. She is the mother of the child who will inherit it. All of this! And everything I have. And you won't stand in the way, you _puttan_'! You lied to him, by lying about her. You made him think she was the one who tried to get my money, when it was _you_ all along!"

Jackie suddenly fell to the floor with a ripping sound. Amelia put her hands on her hips and frowned down at the gasping woman. "Look at you. You dress like a whore. You _are_ a whore!"

She pronounced it "who-wah"; Annie blinked. No matter how it was pronounced, she'd never expected to hear that word come from her two-year-old daughter's mouth.

"And you sleep with other men. You don't care if it's my grandson's child or anyone's child who inherits what we worked so hard for. You just want it for yourself." Nonna-Amelia spat—quite literally—at Jackie. "_Puttan_'."

Then she turned and looked at Annie. She tilted her head and smiled; she clasped Amelia's tiny fists together in front of her chest. "You, on the other hand, were always kind to me. You treated me like you'd treat your own grandmother. I knew her well. Knew your family. All of them, very good people. I would have been proud to be your family too. You always had respect for me. A very nice girl. Very stupid, for what you did with Greg—but I can understand. He is also stupid, but he's not bad-looking and can be persuasive." She unclasped her hands and waved them about. "His grandfather was also this way. I understand."

Annie heard a croak behind her, and a shuffling step. Greg moved past her shoulder; his eyes not on his daughter (of course) but his wife.

"You sleep with other guys?"

"No! I don't! Why would I?" Jackie said in a hoarse-sounding voice.

"Ask the delivery man. She likes to sample his _brasciole_!" Nonna's voice was strident in Amelia's body. "And your neighbor. The fireman!"

"You sleep with Mike? The guy I play golf with? Go for beers with? Play softball with?"

Jackie lowered her chin.

"You're friends with his wife! You do things together; shop together, take the kids to the playground, do spa days and…" Greg stopped his painful shuffle and stared down at her. "You sleep with her husband?"

"She tricks you," Nonna-Amelia said. "She is a bad, bad woman."

He nodded and lifted his gaze to the child standing on the table. "I'm sorry," he said.

"You will do the right thing by her. By the baby." Nonna-Amelia fixed him with a stare.

"I will, Nonna. I promise. I will take care of Amelia. And Annie."

"And you will put more garlic in the sauce and get nice red tablecloths instead of these cheap ones. And get rid of those chandeliers. What do you think this is? A whorehouse? And—" Suddenly Amelia sat down with a squishy-diapered thump as a gray mist vaporized over her head.

"Go 'way, bad wady! Weave my Me-la awone!" Dean shouted from the edge of the table. He threw another handful of Sam's pink, Himalayan sea salt at the mist. "Son-a-bitch!"

The mist rose and whooshed away, into the kitchen; Annie heard a clatter of pans and a crash.

Cas disappeared, too.

Melia shrieked and held out her arms to be held.

Annie realized she wasn't immobilized anymore but before she could get to her daughter and comfort her, she saw Dean commando crawling across the tabletop to take her in his little arms and rock her as best he could. "Is all wight, Me-la," he said in a hushed, gentle voice. "Dee make bad wady go byebye. Shh…shh." He kissed her forehead. "Is aww wight now. Dee take care of you."

"What just happened? And who's that kid?" Greg said from beside Annie's shoulder.

"That's Dean. Dean Winchester." Annie moved to embrace both the children and hold them tightly, kissing them each in turn. And then she pressed her cheek to Dean's head. "And I don't care if you're a creepy perv, Dean Winchester. You're always going to be my hero!"

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Balls. I smell like oil and vinegar." Bobby groused. "And I'm all greasy."

"So Dean used the salt I left on the table? Huh." Sam stood now, staring at their silverware scattered to the edges of their table, their shattered plates, the destroyed centerpiece. And at the decimated pile of pink rock salt.

Annie tried not to notice the knife still protruding from his shoulder. It was apparently not so painful that he couldn't ignore it.

Or maybe he was so used to being skewered by knives, he didn't pay it any mind.

Annie wished he would—it was grossing her out. But she soldiered on. It was the Winchester way, and if it she was going to be a part of it—even if only for a short time—she was going to act the part. "Yep. Got himself out of his highchair and climbed up on the table while no one was looking."

"Well…he can escape from any restraint. That's for sure."

"Kid's a menace. But I for one, am glad for it. At least right now." Bobby said. "I think I have a crouton down my shirt. Can we go home?"

"I don't think Amelia will let Dean leave," Annie said, gesturing at the kids. Amelia was clinging to Dean like a barnacle to a rock. And he seemed happy with that, as he pulled things out of the DBofD and showed them to her.

"Dis a wipey," he said. "Wipe Me-la with it. Wipe wipe!" He brushed it over her forehead playfully and she gave him a belly laugh in return.

"Uh, Sam. You sure he can't get into the other pockets?" Amelia frowned. "Like, he's not going to douse my kid in holy oil, is he?"

"Kind of like how I'm doused in olive oil? I'd really like to shower now. Why don't I just go and you two can go off wherever you go and take the tykes with you? All you gotta do is give me the car keys." Bobby said.

Sam nodded but didn't respond, still watching his brother thoughtfully. "It's funny. He's a Hunter, even if he doesn't know anything else about anything. It's just part of who he is. What he does."

Bobby muttered something and wandered to an adjacent table to pour himself a glass of wine from a full carafe and sat in an empty chair. Annie could feel him glaring at them.

"So that's even more of a reason for me to worry he might get one of those other pockets open." Annie nudged Sam's side.

"No, Cas put a binding word on it so only he and I—and Bobby—can open it," Sam put his arm around Annie. "And you, if you need to. You did really good tonight. You could have freaked out, but you hung in there. You know, you might be a Hunter at heart, too.

"Thanks, Sam." Annie smiled up at him, wishing it could be true but, knowing her heart even more than Sam thought he did, realizing it wasn't. She wasn't a Hunter at all. "To be honest, I'd really appreciate it if we could just go to the emergency room and get that knife removed."

"Oh! Yeah. This. Sure." He plucked it out and squinted at it; blood spurted, then seeped, from the wound, turning the sleeve of his white dress shirt red. Sam shrugged, wiped the blade on his chest and tucked it away in a pocket. Or someplace. Wherever Winchesters secreted their weapons when not using them. "That better?"

"That's…disconcerting." She frowned. "Sam…this kind of thing happens to you a lot, doesn't it?"

He made a squishy-browed face and nodded. "It does."

"Sort of just another day at the office?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Oh." Annie nestled into his side and watched Amelia trying to read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom to Dean; he was still busy pulling things out of the diaper bag. "Uh…Sam. He's got the angel blade."

"Damn! I thought Cas said that pocket would be impenetrable." Sam moved to grab the knife from Dean. "Give me that—give it—give—Dean! Get back here with that. Don't you run with that knife…" The pair of Winchesters thundered by her, one giggling hysterically, the other trying to look patient like the parenting books tell you to be, and failing miserably. "Dean. DEAN!" The pair of them raced out into the lobby.

"Uh oh. Bag is bwoken." Melia lifted it up and all its contents cascaded out of the rip in the bottom of the bag. "Put a band aide on it, Mommy?"

"Maybe we'll find a way to fix it. In the meantime, let's get this mess picked up. I'll get some of the take out bags from the kitchen." She turned to Bobby, who sat grumpy and glowering in his chair. "Do you mind keeping an eye on her? Again? I'm sorry."

The older hunter shrugged. "Whatever. I'm sitting here. I can watch her. She doesn't do anything much, if she's not possessed by her great-grandmother. Not like mini-Dean."

He shook his head and she noticed that he had a piece of red cabbage in his hair; Amelia took pity on him and plucked it away. "You never got your steak _pizzailio_."

"No. I didn't." He pouted petulantly.

"I tell you what. The kitchen's closed for the rest of the night. Greg's got to deal with Jackie and everything. But tomorrow, if you want, I'll have a special order of it made just for you and bring it over."

"Calamari, too? Didn't get that, either."

"Calamari, too." She paused. "You know, Bobby, I've heard about you my whole life. My dad talked about you."

"Your Dad arrested me."

Annie snorted. "He was just doing his job. You _did_ break that window."

"I was aiming for a Werewolf!"

"I know that. _Now._ But then…well. Anyhow, I just wanted to say. I knew _of _you but I never really _knew_ you."

"Still don't know me."

"Yeah, that's true. But I'm getting to know you." She bent and kissed his cheek. "Thanks for taking one for my little girl, Mr. Singer."

"Enh." He shrugged. "I didn't do much. Got knocked unconscious."

"You got saladed."

"Well, yeah. There is that." He nodded, and gave her a gruff smile. "I like you, Annie. Even though I don't know you that well."

"I like you too, Bobby." She smiled at him, then left for the kitchen.

0-0-0-0-0

There, she found Cas sitting on one of the prep areas and talking what appeared to be empty air. "It's all right if you come to see what's happening. But the rule is—no involvement."

The angel paused, as if listening. He held up his hands.

"I know. I know! You needed to make sure the little girl is okay. But now it's time for you to go back. I wiped all the patron's memories clean and your grandson and his wife only remember what they need to, so you did what was necessary. There's no reason to stay here. Yes, I know they don't clean the kitchen the way you used to, but you're dead now and—no, no, no! I meant no disrespect, I just—please, Nonna. No, no, don't do that. You don't have to—"

Annie pulled four bags out of the holder, paused, and then decided to take a few more just in case. She didn't have to wonder what Nonna was doing to manipulate Cas into letting her do what she wanted; she already knew.

In life, Nonna had been the master of getting her way. With guilt, usually. One of her favorite threats had been to say she'd be checking herself into the nursing home—not the nice one by Our Lady of Perpetual Distress, but the one by the pig farm, way out in the middle of nowhere, too far to visit and that would be fine with everyone, because she was just an old lady and no one needed her anymore anyway, so they could just get on with their lives and not worry about her…

Apparently, in death, she was still the master. Probably telling Cas something like, "I'll just go to Purgatory, that way no one will have to worry about me...I'm just a dead old lady. I spent my life saying a daily rosary and keeping the sacraments, but it's fine. I'm nothing but a _scorchamend_'. You don't need to worry 'bout me..."

Annie grinned.

"Greg promised to do the right thing and everyone heard that Amelia is your granddaughter, so you know that he'll have to do what your will says. There's no reason for you to stay here. Well, yes, I know they're not putting enough garlic in the sauce, but I'm sure that can be rectified.

"Annie will be taken care of too. Yes, I promise to get that hairy young man to help her move into a decent apartment. Yes, Greg will pay for it, I'll make sure."

Well, that was news to her. True, she lived in a one bedroom apartment but it wasn't _in_decent. Sure, it was drafty and the pipes leaked, and she didn't have any closet space, and she and Amelia had to share a bed, but it was comfortable and she managed. If she budgeted carefully and made good tips, sometimes she even managed to save a little. And she didn't have to ask her parents for money, which was important to her.

Cas continued, "But you have to know. If you come back and possess Amelia again, Sam and Bobby—and I—will be sending you away for good. Returning to check on your family is a privilege, Carlotta. You can't just possess them when you want to send a message. What you did today was very wrong—no, I know you had to do it. Yes, she _is_ a _putan_' but that doesn't mean…listen, freezing Greg's winky was a very bad thing to do. You can't determine someone's fate like that, even if they deserve it. It's not your place to make those decisions. No. It's not mine, either. No, I don't think I can take you to see Him, because right now, He's busy. Yes. Too busy to see you. What? I don't know what He's doing, but—oh, don't say that. Please. I meant no disrespect. Please—"

The door swung open with a squeak; Sam poked his head in. "Uh, Annie? Do you know where the plunger is? Dean flushed the angel blade."

"Coming. Let me just get these bags to Bobby so we can clean up and leave." Annie bunched the plastic totes into a ball. _Life with Winchesters_. She realized it wasn't going to last much longer, and though she knew her heart would break when Sam went back on the road, she also knew she would be okay. Because though she thought she might love Sam, no matter what he said, she wasn't a Hunter at heart. She was just a small town girl who was able to play at Hunter for a while. And that was okay, too. "Everything's going to be fine, Sam."


	14. Chapter 14

_WARNING: This chapter is written in omniscient POV. Usually, I'm not a fan of omniscient, because I've seen too many writers mishandle it. Many publishers also want their authors to avoid it, for the same reason. You might dislike it as well, in which case: get ready, armor up, strap yourself in, gird your loins, put on a helmet, or whatever you do. Head hopping ahead! _

_Please note: The following chapter has also been rated EHF for extreme, heartwarming fluffiness. (So ready some insulin and a barf bucket. You're gonna need 'em.)  
_

_I'd also like to point out that this chapter is__—in my opinion__—a giant pause. Like, you could get up, get a snack, use the bathroom, make a phone call and completely skip this chapter and not miss it. Yes, I know...readers need down time. But it doesn't add to the momentum of the plot and if I were editing this as a book, I'd delete this chapter. It does nothing. Except, maybe, make the reader say "awwwww"..._

**_Consider yourself warned. If you need to use the bathroom, now might be a good time. You can return in time for Chapter Fifteen.  
_**

* * *

**FOURTEEN**

"Come on, Dean. It's time for bed." Sam lifted his brother up and draped him over his shoulder. "Say good night to Bobby."

"Do 'night to Booby." Dean hung limp over Sam but lifted his face to see the older man.

"Backatcha, kiddo." Bobby got up to give Dean a kiss. It wasn't something he'd do to Dean when he was an adult, but now—it seemed natural. "Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite."

Dean giggled. "Bugs bite."

"They sure do. Night, Dean-o."

"Beano!"

"Whatever. Sam, you staying up there?"

"I think so. I'm pretty beat. It took me almost half an hour to get the angel knife out of the toilet at the restaurant." Sam hooked his arm around Dean's legs so he could carry him up the stairs without fear of him sliding backwards and falling.

"Took Feathers all of about half a second. You should have waited for him before plunging your ass off."

"Well, he was busy sending Nonna back to Heaven. I didn't mind."

"Yeah. And who do you suppose had to watch Super Boy while you were playing plumber?" Bobby rifled Dean's hair and blew a raspberry on his small, soft cheek. "Brat. You wear me out, boy."

"Bwat." Dean grinned. "You, Booby."

"So you say, you little son of a—"

"—Bobby! _No!_"

"Bitch!" Dean chortled.

Sam's sigh could be heard on the other side of the house. As could Bobby's chuckle.

"All righty, then. Good night, you two." The older hunter went into his study and Sam climbed the stairs to their room. He counted as he went. "One stair, two stairs, three stairs, four, five stairs, six stairs, seven aaaaaand—"

"No more!" Dean cheered.

"That's right, dude. Good job." Praising his brother was more and more natural to Sam every day. As was pretty much everything else, he mused, carrying Dean into the bathroom. "Let's brush our teeth."

"Bwush, bwush, bwush-a bwush bwush..." Dean sang while Sam readied their toothbrushes: mint for him, bubble gum for his big little brother. The little boy opened his mouth so his brother could scrub his teeth.

"Okay. Spit."

Dean spat, and sipped carefully from the cup of water Sam held to his lips. "Ah. All cwean. Dam's turn!" The little boy sang his _bwusha bwusha_ song while Sam brushed and tried not to swallow his toothpaste foam as he choked back a laugh. He couldn't help but imagine adult-Dean's reaction to hearing his song about teeth and wished he would remember to record his brother's cheerful song. "Dam, spit!"

When Sam was finished and had hung their brushes in the holder, the little boy hurried to the door and waited; Sam knew what trick was going through his brother's head and scooped him up before he could run off to play hide and seek. He carried the giggling boy over his shoulder once more, bouncing him gently to make it fun. When they got to their bedroom Sam dropped Dean from a slight height onto the mattress of the bed closest to the door so that he'd bounce in the air.

Dean shrieked with laughter and as he had every night, he flipped over to his stomach to make his escape; Sam hooked his ankle gently with a quick hand and tugged him back. "Oh no you don't, you little anklebiter."

"Anka bita. Raah!" Dean said. He allowed Sam to return him to his back and tug off his shoes and socks; he wiggled his tiny toes in anticipation. "'Mell da feet."

"Oh, no," Sam said. But he grinned. He couldn't help it. This was one of his favorite parts of his day. There was something so comforting about it. And it was such a simple, stupid little thing, the antithesis of adult Dean's behavior; maybe that's what Sam loved so much about it. Or maybe he loved it because it made his heart melt, every time. "Oh, no, Dean."

The little boy giggled. "Mell 'em, Dammy!"

Sam could actually feel his heart going all gooey in his chest. "No way, dude."

"'Mell!" Dean chortled, and waved one small, plump, pink foot in the air. "It 'tinks!"

Sam grasped it gently and pressed it to his nose. "OHMYGOD! Phew!" he announced, and made "the" face. The stinky foot face. "Oh gawd!" He made a gagging noise. "I'm gonna throw up."

Dean giggled from his belly. "Do it 'gin." He wiggled his toes.

Sam did it again. And again. And again. All the while thinking of Dean's adult feet and how he'd never—ever—get within sniffing distance of them if his life depended on it. All hairy toes and nasty grown-up toenails, stuffed and damp in boots and sweaty socks for hours at a time. "Blech!" But toddler Dean's feet were odorless and biteably cute, uncalloused and practically unused. Brand new feet with many miles left in them. He blew a raspberry onto the soft, warm bottom of one of them, took it gently between his teeth and pretended to gnaw on it.

"Ooh! 'Tinky!" Dean giggled so hard he was breathless, and Sam knew it was time to quit. Too much more and his brother would be too wound up for bed. That had been a quick and easy lesson to learn, and not a mistake repeated.

It had taken him hours to get Dean to sleep the one night the game had gone on too long.

"Okay. Let's change that diaper."

"'Tinky!" Dean said again, but he put his feet down and waited while Sam removed his pants and wet diaper. Immediately, he did what Cas termed _invading his own space_, but it no longer phased Sam. It was there, like a toy, and it felt good, and that's what boys did. He made sure there was no redness or signs of rash, wiped Dean's little body quickly with a wipe to remove any harsh urine which would burn tender skin, and put on a fresh diaper, taping it tightly and making sure the top fold and leg holes weren't crimped because they could pinch.

All the while, Dean lay still, watching, waiting, and chatting. "Dam? Ass in heaven?"

"I think so. He's somewhere." He pulled Dean's "I 'wuv' hugs" teddybear t-shirt over his head.

"Ass watch."

"Ass does a lot of things." Sam slipped Dean's tiny white undershirt off too. He couldn't get over the sight of Dean's little torso; hairless, tatt-less and scarless, with a pouchy toddler belly and warm, silky soft skin. There were no muscles and no fat; it was all new and unblemished, and best of all, Dean had a half-innie, half-outie bellybutton. He couldn't help it—he had to risk an overtired, overexcited Dean.

He poked his brother's bellybutton with his index finger. "_Riiiiiiiing_!"

Dean roared with little boy laughter, rolling back and forth on the mattress in anticipation of what came next.

"Gonna get you!" Sam put his lips on Dean's squishy little belly and blew. _Brrrrrrraaaaap!  
_

Dean howled.

Sam did it again. _Brrrrraaap!_ But then, he realized his day's scruff was scraping Dean's tender skin and stopped. "Okay. That's enough."

Dean nodded. "Dat's enuff." He wiggled. "Do ring, 'gain."

"Riiiing!" Sam reached for a clean t-shirt from the nearby laundry basket to signal tummy tickle time was over. Dean sighed and waited.

"Dam wike da westauwant?"

"It was okay."

"Me-la got sad?" He pooched out his lower lip in sympathy for his friend.

"Yes, but she's better now."

"Bad wady all gone."

"Yes, she is."

Dean frowned and his forehead wrinkled with concern. "Wady come here?"

"No, Dean. That lady can't come here. Bobby's house is safe."

"Dam make Dee safe?"

"Yes. I'll always keep you safe, Dean." Sam paused, reflecting. It was true; he would do whatever it took to keep Dean safe. But it went beyond the fact that his brother was defenseless. Or small.

He turned the idea over in his mind, worried at it. When Dean was an adult and able to take care of himself—then Sam hadn't wished his brother hurt but he'd never felt compelled to protect him as he did, now. _This, _what he felt now, was more than loyalty. It was a deep and unquestionable compulsion that started in the marrow of his bones and extended to every fiber of his being. He'd risk his own life, limb or whatever he had in order to protect the little boy-_his_ little boy-from harm.

Sam realized with a start that it was, or had been—always—Dean who'd protected him. Or put himself in mortal peril—or sold his soul—trying to keep _his_ little brother safe. His whole life, Dean had been driven by the same compulsion he was only feeling now. And it was because he was almost...no, he _was_—Dean's little boy...

"Dam sad too?" Dean scrunched his forehead up in a remarkable imitation of Sam's own concerned-forehead wrinkle.

"No, I'm not sad. I'm just thinking."

"Dee feet tink."

Sam grinned then, only too happy to push the unsettling thought from his mind. "Ohhh, no. We're not playing that game again now. It's time to put your jammies on."

"Dammies." Dean nodded, apparently unaware that he'd used almost the same name for his brother as for his pajamas. "Do da gween ones with th' doggie?"

"Sure. The green ones are clean. Wait a sec." Sam put the fresh t-shirt on his brother, before pulling the requested fuzzy feety pajamas out of the laundry basket. He pressed them to his nose first; they smelled sweet with fabric softener and were soft against his face. It made him feel warm and sleepy and he hoped it would do the same for the little boy. He slipped Dean's feet into the foot holes and slipped the pajamas up over his body, then zipped them closed, carefully not to pinch his brother's tender skin. "There you go. The green jammies with the doggie. All set."

"All set." Dean said, and sat up, touching the puppy embroidered over his heart. "Da doggie ready to sweep?"

"Yes, Dean. The doggie is tired. Want to go get your story?"

"Ok." Dean was ready for the next part of their established routine. He slid down off the bed and went to the wicker basket Sam had placed on the floor; it was full of books purchased at a few yard sales and the library's book sale.

In the meantime, Sam got himself ready for bed, slipping out of his jeans, socks and shirt, propping their pillows up against the headboard and climbing under the covers. He put his arms behind his head and watched his brother looking at each book's cover thoughtfully before he tossed it over his shoulder to thunk on the floor, and moved on to the next. Another mess to clean—it was how Sam started each day, lately. Picking up the books Dean had discarded and disregarded the night before.

After a few minutes of searching, Dean found the book he wanted and brought it to him. Sam sat up and leaned to lift the little boy up beside him on the bed. He couldn't help but muse that when both of them sat with their legs stretched out straight, Dean's barely made it past his hips. Inside the boot-like feet of his pajamas, his toes wiggled. The little boy was ready to start running all over again, never ready to quit. Even when he grew up, again, he would be always ready to move.

And he'd always be the shorter of them, too. Sam grinned. "Okay. Ready?"

"Weady."

Sam opened the cover and began to read. "In the great green room, there was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of the cow, jumping over the moon…"

"Him dumping," Dean added.

"Yes. _She _is," Sam agreed. "And there were three little bears, sitting on chairs…"

"Wuuuuun. Two. Fwee!" Dean pointed to each bear with a tiny index finger.

"And two little kittens. And a pair of mittens. And a little toy house. And a young mouse—"

"What da mouse doin'?"

"I don't know, Dean. Getting ready for bed."

"Him sweep da house?"

"Maybe he does sleep in the house." Sam nodded. "And a comb, and a brush and a bowl full of mush…"

"Blech. No wike mush."

"And a quiet old lady, whispering 'hush'."

"Shhhhhh…" He paused and his eyes grew wide. "Da bad wady?"

"No, this is a good lady. See? She's taking care of the rabbit."

"Wike Dam take care of Dean!"

"Exactly like that, Dean. Like I take care of you." Sam's heart twinged.

"Dee wike dat wady."

"Me, too. Goodnight room."

"Night woom."

"Goodnight moon."

"Night moon."

"Goodnight cow, jumping over the moon."

"Him still do dumps."

"Yes. _She _does." Every night, Sam wanted to go into a lesson about how cows are girls but realized that there was no point; soon enough, Dean would be back to himself and wouldn't need reminding or a lesson on bovine genders. The thought made him sad. So he read on. "Goodnight light, and the red balloon. Good night bears. And good night chairs. Good night kittens. And good night clocks and—"

"Mittens!"

_Shit._ He tried to hurry the story—such as it was—along, but Dean knew the thing by heart and there were no omissions. "Good night mittens. Good night kittens. Good night clocks and…" he read the story to the end, finishing up with, "Good night noises, everywhere. All right, Dean, under the covers."

Dean scooted under the covers and let Sam pull them up to his chin. "Booby make noises?"

"Booby snores." Sam grinned.

"Dam 'nores."

"_Dean_ snores."

Dean giggled. "Dam? Ass 'nore?"

"Ass doesn't snore because he doesn't sleep."

"_Dean_ no sweep."

"Dean _sweeps_. Ass watches Dean sweep." Sam leaned to click off the light beside the bed; the moonlight outside streamed in through the window. He nestled down next to his brother. As always, Dean plunged his fingers into his hair and began stroking it. So he scooped his little big brother up in his arms and pulled him close; Dean's fuzzy jammies and body heat warmed Sam's side.

"Dood night moon," Dean said.

"Good night moon," Sam echoed.

He heard Dean put his thumb into his mouth. "Dood night Dam," Dean said around it. "Wuv 'oo."

"Good night Dean," Sam whispered, and hugged him tight. "I love you, too."

Dean was quiet; the sound of his thumb-sucking filled Sam's ear. Then he pulled out the digit with a popping noise. "Dam? Oo sing Twinka twinka star?"

Sam sighed and hoped he wouldn't have to sing for very long. But he knew he would, if that's what Dean wanted. He cleared his throat and sang in a soft, gentle, deep voice while his brother snuggled into his side and stroked his hair. "Twinkle, twinkle little star..."

0-0-0-0-0

Invisible, Cas watched and listened to the Winchesters. In his hand, he held Sam's phone, stolen from the counter where the hunter had left it. The angel would return the phone to the charger when he was done recording the brothers' routine.

But for now, he made sure he cast enough light for the little device to be able to "see" the brothers in the darkness. Because he knew, soon enough, what he'd recorded would be a memory each of them would want to hold onto. Times would grow tough and they would draw apart—and get together—again and again, the fabric of their lives growing weaker with each separation.

But this…it would show them how much they really meant to each other, how much they needed each other.

He recorded until he heard both of them snoring.

* * *

_There. Now you see the reason for the omniscient POV. The whole thing was in Cas' POV. Yes, he was stalking Dean and Sam.  
_

_Bwhahahaha…very sneaky, and kind of creepy, now that I think of it. But__—don't you wish Cas could post it on YouTube for all of us to watch? Sigh…_

_In all honesty, I wrote this because I started thinking about the good things I remember about parenting my children when they were small, and I wanted to share that. (Especially because two of them are now evil teenagers who only want me when they need money or a driving lesson. Grrr.) _

_It makes me kind of sad to think Sam will never be a Daddy when it's obvious—at least here—that he'd be good at it. Which reminds me: __the book Sam read to Dean was (and is) the classic, Goodnight, Moon. A lovely, quiet, bedtime book. At one time, I read it so often I could recite it by memory and often did, during one of those middle of the night awake times when you don't want to turn on a light, you just want the little buggers to go back to sleep so you can, too. _

_I'm sure that Sam could easily recite it by memory, too. Maybe even in Latin. _

_Oh gosh. Now I'm depressed. I have to go write something silly. Stay tuned!  
_

_*****clapping hands*** ATTENTION! You there! In the kitchen! Hurry up! We're almost ready to start chapter fifteen. It's about Halloween-and I think we might get a special trick or treat visit from a friend! Get your popcorn out of the microwave and get back here! We can't wait forever, you know...  
**_


	15. Chapter 15

_Author's Note: Yay! Snow day! Okay, yes, it's Saturday but I got to hunker down and do nothing but write, today as Mother Nature dumped 12 to 14 inches of what the meteorologists like to call "the white stuff" on our state. So I told my Muse, either we write or we go out and shovel the driveway every couple of hours. Consequently, I produced my longest chapter to date, and I'm unable to get out of my driveway. _

_I hope it's not too long. _

_Thanks to everyone for reviewing up until now. Keep 'em coming. I love watching that review number go up. _

_As always, I have no claim to the Winchesters, Supernatural or anything else. If I did, my driveway would be shoveled to pavement right now..._

_Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**FIFTEEN**

"Cerea! Cerea, cerea, cerea-uh-uh! Cere-aAAAH!"

Bobby shuffled past the table clutching his coffee mug, his trucker's cap pulled down low over his eyes. His head hurt already.

"Cerea-cerea-ce-reee-uh!"

He glared down at Dean, who waved a small plastic spoon in swooping arcs around his head as he ate his morning bowl of Fruit-flavored Loops.

"Cerea-cerea-cere-cere-cere-REA!"

And he winced. That last piping, high-pitched note had—he was sure—done bad things to his middle ear.

He glared from under the cap's bill at Sam, who sat calmly munching from his own bowl of _healthy fiber blahblahcolon_ cereal and reading a Latin text on witches; not necessarily the light reading Bobby would choose first thing in the morning (the back of the cereal box was usually a go until the caffeine kicked in), but Sam had always been a deep thinker even half-asleep.

"Cerea-cerea, cereaaaaaaa!"

Though how anyone could be close to asleep with all this noise, Bobby had no clue. It was unendurable. Far too cheerful and cute for the first light of dawn. Or even, around ten a.m. It made his spine crawl. Bobby hurrumphed and slammed his mug on the counter. "For the love of Mike! What the _hell_ is he singing about?"

Sam looked up, startled and turned his attention to Dean, who sat surrounded by and covered with rainbow-colored loops of cereal; some of them had made it into his mouth because he was displaying them as he sang.

"Cerea-cerea-cerea!"

The young man shrugged. "Cereal."

"I know _that_, you horse's ass. What I mean is, why the _fuck's_ he singing about it?"

"I dunno. 'Cause he likes it."

"Does he _have_ to sing about it?"

"I don't know, Bobby. He's happy. He sings when he's happy." Sam pursed his lips, wiggled his brows and returned to his treatise.

"Fuck me, then." Bobby frowned and started out of the kitchen before he lost his hearing altogether. He halted in the doorway, though, when Dean started with a variation to his song.

"Ducka me cerea. DUCK me ce-REA! Cerea, cerea, DUCK me!"

Bobby hung his head and let his shoulders slump. _Fuck me twice_.

Sam sighed. "Thanks a lot, Bobby. That's awesome."

Bobby faced Sam, _and_ the music, such as it was. "Well, how was I supposed to know the little shit was was going to incorporate…"

"_Shitta_ duck cer-ea! Shitta cereah, duck!"

The younger hunter closed the book with a bang and stood up. He swung about. "Do you ever stop to think that this might be the _real _Dean? The one who existed before Mom was killed? Before Dad dragged us back and forth across the country in the car to hunt God knows what? Before we learned to salt, burn and kill the things most people only imagine exist? That this Dean might be person he would have been if we _never _had to become Hunters?"

"Duck, cer-ee-uh, shit BALLS!" Dean sang on, unaware that he'd ever been unhappy or even slightly mopey. "Balls shit duck ceeeereeeeaaaaaah!"

Sam winced. "Only, with a cleaner mouth?"

The kid had a point. But…Bobby peered around the giant young man to peer at the little one. "He's annoying as hell."

"Yes. But he's _happy._ I mean…look at him!"

"He's got Fruit Loops in his hair."

"I know. He got Fruit Loops in his hair when he was an adult, too. But that was because he was hung over."

Bobby leaned against the doorframe and took a swig of strong, hot, black morning brew. It scalded his mouth and throat in the perfect _it's morning, wake the hell up!_ kind of way. "I liked him when he was grouchy and moody and didn't sing about everything he did."

"I know you did. I did, too. But this is him, unblemished. _Tabula rasa_. The essential Dean Winchester."

"Easy for you to say. Yesterday he was singing, 'salta-salta-salt!' and you _know_ what he was doing then—took me an hour to get it all cleaned up. Especially when he found the holy water. I think my hardwoods are going to need refinishing. They look like they've been washed by a high tide."

Sam wrinkled his forehead. "But Bobby. He's happy and I can't help but think…it might be wrong to change him back."

"What?" Bobby almost dropped his mug. "The fuck you say! Of course you need to change him back!" That was the worst thing he'd ever heard. How could Dean stay small and annoying forever? Why would they allow such a thing? Was Sam out of his mind? "Are you out of your effin' mind?"

"There's no telling if he's going to come back with all his adult memories intact, anyway."

"Then Cas will just ram 'em back."

"But then he'll just go right back into the fray, Bobby. Things are going on. He won't just pack in the Life and call it a day. He'll just get in the Impala and all this will be…gone. Why would we want to do that to him?" Sam turned around, moved to the table and unbuckled Dean from his chair.

When he lifted his brother onto his hip, he got one of Dean's infamous open-mouthed, probably sticky-as-hell kiss on his cheek for his actions. Bobby noticed the way Sam gave his big brother a gentle squeeze and a kiss of his own before putting him down and turning back to start cleaning up the cereal mess, but then swung around once more to continue his argument. "He's _happy_. Think about it, Bobby. No memories of Hell. No scars, no demons, no Lucifer. No lost parents. He can go to school. He can play sports. He can be _normal_."

Sounded like a pipe dream. As much as Bobby understood how Sam felt—because he'd often wished the same things for both John's boys—hell, _his_ boys—he also knew there were some things that were what they were no matter how much you might try to change them. "Don't look now, but your normal little brother is standing on top of the fridge and reaching for the ceiling fan."

"Dean!" Sam spun to pluck him down.

From outside—suddenly—a horrible squealing sound could be heard. Bobby pushed himself upright. "What in the name of all that's unholy is that?"

"That would be Annie's car." Sam shouldered past him, Dean on his hip, to the front door. Bobby followed.

"She's coming here?" He gave the front room a cursory glance; he wasn't a fussy housekeeper by any means, but he had _some _pride. "Would have been nice to get some warning." He hurried over to start shuffling together some papers on an end table. But then, he realized, he'd have to climb over a fire truck and a hunk of molded plastic called a "little tykes' kitchen center", and decided it didn't matter. The house looked like an explosion in a toy factory anyhow.

Besides, the woman and the girl were already inside. Dean scrambled down Mt. Sam to greet Melia, who was dressed like a ballerina or some kind of winged—_something_. Bobby was pretty sure she wasn't an insect, because that would be creepy. Then again who knew, with kids. But when Melia whacked Dean over the head with what appeared to be a magic wand (who the hell came up with the idea wands had giant, purple-glittered stars on the end of them?), he knew she was supposed to be some kind of Disney fairy.

Or maybe she was a fairy insect. Who the hell knew? He watched the pair of children crow-hopping/skipping past him on their way to the giant, castle-shaped toy box Sam and Cas had found at some garage sale and poofed home; toys began to fly as they tossed them every which way.

Sure. _Dean's_ memories of Hell were erased, but who would erase _Bobby's_ memories of this particular torture?

"Morning, you old coot." Annie said from his elbow; her hand was soft as she pressed it to one side of his face and then leaned up to kiss his other cheek. She smelled nice, like vanilla-ed sugar.

"Angrrmph," he muttered, not because he was grouchy but because he had a reputation to uphold.

"You're not fooling me, Bobby Singer," she said, and he watched her making her way to the kitchen with Sam. They were a cute couple, he decided, as couples went. He was no expert. What he was sure of was that it was nice to see one of his boys with a normal, undemonic girl from whom they didn't have to hide their way of life. She leaned up into Sam for a kiss, and as the pair embraced, he realized—Sam wasn't the only one who wished a boy could stay happy.

0-0-0-0-0

"I dunno, Annie. I don't like Halloween."

"Aw, come on, Sam. It'll be fun. Melia loves Dean and it would be so cute to dress them as a pair. It will be our only chance." Annie reached into her purse. "Now, let's get to the party store before all the good costumes are all sold out. I found some extra money in my wallet this morning, so it's my treat." She pulled out a wad of cash.

_Holy Shit._ "Holy shit!" Sam stared at it. "Where did you get that?"

"I don't know. I opened my wallet and it was there. I checked my bank statement online and even went to the branch to double check. I've paid all my bills and I didn't forget to make a deposit or anything. But it was there and I don't want to question it too much; I'll figure out later where it came from and pay it back. Don't be such a poop, Sam."

Nonna. Nonna had probably stolen it from Greg. Or Jackie. Or both of them. He narrowed his eyes. As far as vengeful spirits went, he had to admit, she was more awesome than evil. But still…she wasn't supposed to be interfering anymore. Then again…it was money Annie was owed since Melia's birth, so maybe Nonna wasn't being that vengeful; she was just even-ing the score. And maybe that wasn't a bad thing, really.

Annie shook the wad of cash at him. "There will be chocolate…lots of it. And gum and maybe even gummy bears."

Sam hesitated. He loved gummy bears. But he hated Halloween. It celebrated all things unholy and too much could slip by him, camouflaged by the costumes and yard displays. Especially now that Dean would need his protection more than ever…anything could happen. Because even though Annie saw candy and fun, he knew it was the night that the King of Hell freely walked the Earth.

Then again, Crowley freely walked the Earth anyway, so what difference did it make? Still…he made a face. "Why don't we just stay here and watch a movie? That could be fun."

Annie put the wad away and moved close to slip her arms around his neck, pressing close. She played with the curls at the back of his neck. When she leaned just right, her small, firm breasts rubbed against his stomach in a way that made him want to tear her clothes off and toss her onto the kitchen table for a quick game of hide the Sam. She was so sweet, and nice, and normal…It made _her_ hard to refuse. And—ultimately—it just made _him_ hard.

"I tell you what. We'll give it a try and if it's really lame, we'll pack the kids up and go home. When they fall asleep, we can enjoy some tricks and treats of our very own." She murmured in his ear, and pressed against him in just the right way, and Sam knew he couldn't tell her "no".

It wasn't just the promise of sex. He'd had sex. Lots of it. Hell, he'd done the nasty with Ruby in the nastiest of ways. No, sex with Annie was tame. But for that, it was so much the sweeter. Mouthwateringly so.

But he didn't want to go to her house. Annie's home wasn't warded. Bobby's was warded to the nth degree. If Crowley did decide to do a pop-in, he could only pop onto the porch. If he appeared anywhere else in the house, he'd get stuck in a devil's trap. But Bobby's house was small and not exactly soundproof. Except…maybe the panic room would be _somewhat _soundproof. If he covered Bobby's Bo Derrick poster with a map or something, it might actually work…

"Oh gosh, Sam. You look so worried. Stop. It will be fine. We'll only go to the houses of people I know. Maybe people from playgroup."

_Whut?_ Sam blinked at her. _Oh! She's talking about taking Dean and Melia _trick or treating_. Oh my God, I'm turning into adult Dean. All I can think about is sex._ And sex with the people from playgroup was something he'd already rejected as too creepy.

"There won't be any apples with razor blades or poison candy. I promise."

"_P-poison_ candy?" _Holy shit!_ He'd never even thought of _that_. He could stop a were with silver, a ghost with salt, a demon with a ward, word and holy water, a vamp with…well, decapitation. But still, that was simple. "People poison _candy_?"

"Not around here, thank God." Annie shrugged, then frowned. "Why? What were _you _worrying about?"

"Nothing." He felt a blush crawling up his neck and over his face. "But you have to promise me we'll only go out for a short time."

"I promise. Dean will be in bed at his usual bedtime." She winked. "And, I promise—so will you."

"Okay." He took a deep breath. Seductive minx. They'd take the kids trick or treating. And then return home. _Hopefully in one piece each, souls included, bloodstreams and stomachs unpoisoned._ Sam nodded. "Okay."

"Yay!" She pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. "So I was thinking…how about if we dress like clowns and—"

_Ack! _Sam couldn't even ward himself from _that _terror. "No! Not clowns." He shuddered.

"Aw…I wanted to dress Melia and Dean like monkeys and put them on leashes."

_Tempting. But not enough._ "No. No clowns."

Sam heard a snuffling, choking noise and peered over his shoulder to see Bobby watching them with one corner of his mouth quirked up; he realized that the older man was trying not to laugh—too loudly—at him.

Either that, or he was having a stroke.

Sam figured it was the former but a part of him was not averse to the latter. Clowns weren't funny and being afraid of them was even less funny. "Bobby? You wanna come with?"

"Not a snowball's chance, kid."He started for his study. Sam was glad to see Melia and Dean following in his wake like destructive, annoying puppies. Served Bobby right. He hoped they trashed his room.

But still, it would have been nice to have the older Hunter nearby for backup if they needed it against Crowley or any other fugly. _I know. I'll ask Cas to come with us. That will be our costume. A pair of paranoid gay Daddies looking to stop our child from being torn apart by a monster or abducted by the King of Hell. Again._ _Awesome. I hate Halloween. _

0-0-0-0-0

The door creaked open. Sam tensed, his hand on his light saber. True, it was fake and made of cheap Chinese plastic, but hell, it was what he had and by God, if necessary, he would use it. He crouched in a readiness stance.

"Geez, Winchester. Stand down. It's Mrs. Murphy. She's eighty-seven years old. What's she gonna do, open the door too fast and knock one of the kids off the step?" Annie fixed him with a stare.

He straightened and scratched the end of his nose. "Sorry."

"Oh, now, who is this?" The elderly woman opened the storm door and bent to peer at the tiny Storm Troopers standing on the top step.

"Say it! Go on, say it!" Annie urged.

"Son-a-bitch!" one of the Storm Troopers yelled bravely, while the other one stood and poked her finger through the eyehole of her mask.

"Oh!" Mrs. Murphy piped. "Oh. Did he say…?"

"We're working on it. Sorry. He's new at this," Sam apologized, bending close to the elderly woman. "Christo," he hissed, just in case.

"She's not a demon, Sam. She's just smells that way because she's elderly." Cas announced.

"Cas!" Sam whipped his head around so fast, one of his Yoda ears fell off and landed on top of the pot of mums on the stairs. "That's not a nice thing to say!"

"Oh. Sorry. Yes." The angel held up his plastic pumpkin. "I forgot. I'm supposed to say 'trick or treat'!"

Mrs. Murphy stared up at the big, blue-eyed Princess Leia. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but you're kind of tall to be collecting candy."

"You have no idea. When I'm not in my vessel, I'm the size of your Chrysler Building." Cas nodded, and lowered his pumpkin in chagrin. "But I know Dean would like some, as will Me-la."

With a palsied hand, the elderly non-demon dropped several candies into each of the Storm Trooper's buckets. Then she extended that same hand to Cas; her knobby fingers wrapped around his palm. It was warm and papery and he could feel how uncomfortable she was in her own skin. But she radiated peace, and love. She whispered, "I know all about you, honey, and I want you to know—I don't think there's anything wrong with it. If you boys love each other then I say—'you go for it'." She squeezed his hand again, and he could feel how difficult that was for her. But she wanted to let him know she cared about him. "I saw that 'Brokenback Cowboys' movie and I thought it was lovely." She patted the top of his hand with her other, shaking hand. "Good for you, dear."

"Thank you. And good for you, too." Cas nodded. When she let go of his hand, he lifted it and pressed his fingers to the center of her forehead. "Bless you."

Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened with surprise. When Cas moved away, she stared down at her hands. "My Parkinson's! It's gone!"

"I gave you a treat, not a trick." Cas nodded. "But I have to go now. Sam put his ear back on and Dean is about to give Samhain greetings to another human. Good night." He vanished to get to the next house in case Dean was about to be attacked by a candy-distributing demon.

"Okay. Now. Melia and Dean. Say 'trick or treat'. Can you say that? Let me hear you!" Annie prompted the children.

Sam stood back, glowering. He hated Halloween. And he didn't like being Yoda. The ears pinched and the makeup staining his skin green itched. He frowned.

"Twick or tweet," Melia piped from behind her mask while Dean looked up at Sam.

"Balls, Dammie."

Sam pursed his lips and nodded in agreement. "Say 'trick or treat', Dean."

"Twicka twee."

"Good. Now say it when the person opens the door."

"'Kay."

"Wait!" Cas materialized on the top step. "I will ring the bell. Stand back."

"Oh geez. Okay." Annie sighed. "Go ahead, Your Highness." She tugged on the edges of her black vest. "Your loyal subjects await."

Cas pushed the bell and paused, eyebrows furrowed. "I hear them moving in there. But I can't tell if it's a demon or not." His nose wrinkled. "They don't smell like sulpher. But they do smell like…ooh. Cats."

Annie nodded. "Mr. Brunfeld. He's got about 900 cats. But he usually gives out good candy."

"Does it smell like cat poop?" Sam sniffed.

"I can't hear you, Sam. The cats. They're talking too loudly." Cas frowned.

"He can't hear you because he has coffee buns on his ears." Annie nudged Sam in the side.

He looked down at her. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure. Why not?" She straightened her thigh holster and re-adjuster her blaster. "What's up?"

"How come you get to be Han Solo and I have to be Yoda?"

"Because I look better in a vest." Annie smiled.

"Why can't _you_ be Leia? Why couldn't Cas be Yoda?"

"Because he looks better in a dress." Annie raised her eyebrows at him. "What's the matter, Sam? It's not easy being green?"

"He's coming!" Cas announced, as he held up his pumpkin. "Get ready!"

The inside door opened and a wizened man with liver spots on his bald scalp appeared in the storm door window. He pushed it open into one of the small Storm Troopers; Dean squawked and fell off the step into a nearby bush. "Duckin' son-a-bitch!"

"Here we are!" Mr. Brunfeld said, cheerfully, and peered at Melia and Cas through tri-focals. "Oh!"

"Twick or tweet!" Cas and Melia said dutifully, plastic pumpkins held aloft, as Sam and Annie pulled Dean out of the boxwood.

"Here you go—ooh. You're a tall one. And _here_ you go, honey. Oh! And there's another one? Well, here you go." The old man patted Dean on the head as he dropped a king-sized candybar into his pumpkin. "What's this? You have leaves in your hair. Are you a tree? Funny looking tree. Heheheh…You have a good night now! Have to close the door so none of the cats get out."

"Too late." Sam made a face as a dozen or more cats stalked around their feet. "Does he neuter them?"

Annie shrugged. "He rescues the feral cats in the neighborhood; they have kittens and he keeps them. But it's been hard for him since his wife passed. And he can't see very well anymore. Obviously. But he's got a good heart."

"He does. He is a very kind and caring man." Cas nodded, and waved his hand.

A general yowling ensued from within the house; outside, cats with poofed tails and arched backs shrieked and streaked off into the night.

"There. They're neutered now. Let's go to the next house, Sam! This is fun!" Cas lifted the hem of his white dress and hurried off after Dean and Melia. After a moment, Sam and Annie followed.

Mr. Brunheld's front door crashed open; the old man stood on his top stair with his glasses in his hand. "I can see! I can _see_! I can see…crap. There are cats everywhere." He remained rooted to the stoop with his mouth hanging open.

"Okay. Guys. You did really good at the last house. Now you're going have to yell 'trick or treat' really loud at this house. Can you do that?"

Cas and the children yelled as instructed. Someone's windows shattered and car alarms went off up and down the street. Annie frowned. "Cas. You don't yell. Just let the kids do it. Okay?"

"Okay, Annie." He nodded.

The three of them trooped up the stairs to the porch. Sam listened to them shout TRICK OR TREAT at the next homeowner—another elderly man, this one with hearing aids that whistled whenever he bent down—and watched them get more candy. Dean and Melia moved off the porch with Annie; Cas stayed behind with the man. He leaned close, touched his ear with a fingertip and the man leapt as if an electric current went through him.

Sam watched him yank his hearing aids from his ears and look at them, startled, and then at Cas. The angel smiled and disappeared, leaving the man standing bewildered in his doorway. He looked out at Sam.

The Hunter raised his hand. "Happy Halloween," he said, and nodded politely.

"I can hear you." The man said, astounded. "Plain as day. Like you're standing right here. And you're not even shouting."

"I know," Sam said.

"Where did he go? The one in the dress?"

"I don't know. The next house, I guess."

"Well…you tell him for me. You tell him thank you!"

"I will."

"And I'll tell you something…" The man came off the porch and approached Sam. When he stood in front of him, he lifted his chin and peered up at him. "You're a tall one, aren't you?"

Sam nodded.

"Well, listen. I heard about you boys, and I just wanted to tell you. Good for you. You stick to your guns, okay? I might be old, but I'm no prude." The man reached up and patted Sam's shoulder. "You're a muscular one, that's for sure. You must be one who gets on top."

"I am." Sam sighed. No matter what the fanfic insisted, he would never be a bottom.

"Good for you. Now go catch up with your man. Woman. Whatever he is."

Sam peered after Cas, hurrying along in his long white dress. "Angel. He's an angel of the Lord."

"Well, I don't know about that. But whatever he is—you hold onto him. He's a keeper. Him and your little boy."

"Okay. I will. Thanks." Sam clasped the man's shoulder, then moved off to catch up to them. Halloween wasn't so bad, he realized. True, there were people dressed like monsters—and Storm Troopers and Jedi Masters and Princesses and even outlaw smugglers, but there were no real monsters lurking about that he could see.

Annie was waiting for him on the sidewalk on the way to the next house. "That was Mr. Cooper. He used to be the local historian and a history teacher before he lost his hearing."

"Well, thanks to Cas, that's no longer an issue." Sam grabbed her hand in his.

"What? You mean…"

"Yep. He healed him. And the old guy with the cats and Mrs. Murphy too. You haven't been noticing?"

"No." She stared after the angel with amazement. "I have to go tell him thank you." She pulled away and broke into a run after Cas and the children. Sam followed at a walk. He watched her catch up to the trio on the steps of the next house, and give the startled angel a huge hug around the neck, almost dislodging one of the coffee buns and knocking her own blaster out of the thigh holster.

Sam went into a jog, then, grabbing the blaster and handing it to her. "Solo. Princess Leia."

"Thank you, Sam." Annie told him, plopping the gun into its sheath. Then she reached up to straighten the bun on Cas' wig. "I just wanted to tell you. What you did for those people. You're amazing." She blinked back tears. "I love you."

Cas looked at her with his usual blank stare. "I know."

Sam snorted. Figured.

The door behind them opened. Melia and Dean lifted their buckets. "Twick or tree!" they shouted.

And Sam found himself looking directly into the face of the King of Hell.

0-0-0-0-0

"Oh look. It's Jolly Green. Green for real, this time. Cute ears, Sam." Crowley loved sneaking up on the Winchesters like this. Really, there was nothing more enjoyable than seeing Lurch, in the lurch. "So is this a trick, or a treat? It's a treat for me. I've been watching you make your way up the whole street. Healing People. Getting treats. Almost-but-not-quite the family business."

"You're not Mrs. Entwhistle." Sam's girlfriend looked at him in confusion.

He smiled. "Smart one, this time around. And not a demon. Well, there's no accounting for taste. And isn't she a tiny little thing?" Crowley peered at her; she frowned back with a glower to match Jolly Green's. "It's a wonder he doesn't snap you in two. Unless it's not all systems go, that is." He opened the door and leaned out to whisper in a faux-conspiratorial way, "Word on the streets is that he and Princess Feathers here have been having a go. Nice buns, by the way, Cas."

"This is not a treat, Crowley," Cas growled.

"Oh, you're such a kill joy." Crowley flapped his hand dismissively, then leaned down to take in the little Winchester and friend. "Well, aren't you two just the cutest tiny bad guys on the planet? Let me give you some candy."

"NO!" Gigantic Winchester and company shouted. As if he'd give the tykes poisoned candy. It would be pointless, for one thing—their little untainted souls would wing directly to heaven and _that_ defeated his purposes. Because he was in the business of collecting souls for Hell, not moving them along in the opposite direction.

Of course, he wouldn't be averse to given them tiny tummy aches. But the candy the now-prone Mrs. Entwhistle had purchased was—alas—poison and irritant free. And truly, tonight, he wasn't really interested in irritating the Winchesters et al., or anyone else for that matter. Unless they were willing to work up a deal—in which case, he was all ears.

He picked up the bowl of Halloween candy prepared by the human of the house. "Here. Here's some nice…oh, bollocks. This is crap. Look. Licorice. Who gives out licorice on Halloween? And—oh, does _anyone_ like Necco wafers? You might as well chew on sidewalk chalk." He turned and looked at the woman lying on the floor behind him. "Your candy sucks, Penny Entwhistle! You get what you deserve, you old whore." He shook his head, snapped his fingers and produced two packages of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. "Look. Sealed. Stolen right from the nearest locale. No poison, no razorblades." But Crowley hesitated before dropping one in Melia's plastic pumpkin; instead he looked up at her mother. "No peanut allergies, I assume?"

Winchester's tart shook her head—still mystified, but not talking. Good. He hated it when women squawked. He stuffed the bag into the jack-o-latern. "There you go, sweetie. Aren't you a cute little thing? Sucks about your Da. I'm well acquainted with his wife, though. Looking forward to the time she comes to join me." He patted her on the head, then straightened and clapped his hands together. "Right. Winchester. We've got to talk."

"We don't have anything to talk about," Samsquatch said through clenched teeth. His hand hovered over the hilt of his plastic light saber; Crowley decided to let that one pass. Clearly, Lurch was on red alert overtime and close to a breakdown.

Having spent only a few wretched hours with his little-ish brother, he could well understand his stress levels.

"Look. I don't mean any harm. I've got too many things to do tonight, and not much time to waste. Oh, bollocks." Crowley noticed a group of trick or treaters making their way up the walk. "Excuse me, please. Could you—thanks." He gestured for the Star Wars crew to step aside so the new group could mount the stairs, then go away. "Ah. Great. Aren't you cute? Oh, look! A devil. Very convincing. Here are some lovely Necco wafers for you. Very nice. Ooh. A princess. Cute. Okay. Good night. Yes…yes…you're welcome." _Damn trick or treaters. _Crowley put down the orange plastic bowl Penny Entwhistle had put her crap candy in and waved away the odor of angel wafting his way. "Honestly. Do you feathered geeks ever shower? You reek of incense. It's quite foul. Please go back over there. Downwind." He gagged.

"At least we don't smell of the Pits of Hell." Cas gave him a narrowed-eyed stare.

Even though Cas' power made Crowley tremble to the tips of his fine Italian loafers, he played brave. "Ooh. Good one. You're the comeback king, you are, Cas. We'll give you a minute to catch up. Thanks for playing."

"I wasn't playing."

"Really. Oh. I hadn't noticed. Right then. Sam, it's about your brother. Speaking of whom, is anyone paying attention to him? Because he's over there, chasing a terrified, neutered cat with a stick. Cassie, isn't it your job to watch the little beast?"

"I'll be back." Cas poofed himself after Dean and Melia, and, in fact, the three of them disappeared as he whisked them back to the relative safety of the Singer residence.

"Smart move." He turned his attention back to the giant Yoda. "What the hell is wrong with you, Samsquatch?"

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly that. Are you nuts? Taking your brother out on a night like this, unwarded and unprotected? _Anything_ could happen to him. Anything!"

"You mean…like you?"

"Exactly like me—oh, bloody hell." _More trick or treaters._ "Stand aside please. Yes, yes, trick or blahblah. Here you go, dearie. Have a blast. Take the whole bloody bowl. It's all shit anyway...Wait a minute—you. What's _your _costume? Petulant teenager? _That's_ your costume? Talk about not even trying. Oh really? You're going to sneer at me? You think so?" Crowley glared at the snot-nosed teen with all the Powers of Hell.

The kid barely broke a sweat. _Bastard. Kids nowadays._ Nothing bothered them. "Just for that, I'm breaking your iPhone, you little git. Take that." He flicked his fingers at the teen and sent him on his way. "Right. Where were we?" Crowley addressed Sam once more.

"You were saying 'anything could happen to Dean'."

"Oh! Yes. That. Right. Okay. _Are you out of your Godforsaken mind_?"

"I'm back." Cas rematerialized in a gust of Holy Breath and the stink of sandlewood and myrrh.

"Seriously, man. One word. Shower." Crowley waved his hand in front of his nose and tried not to gag. "Look Lurch. I've got an agenda. You can't argue with me about that. Am I right?"

Sam nodded, narrowing his eyes.

"Part of that is having my pet Hunters fighting the good fight. You know that, don't you? You've seen it. Hasn't he, Cassie?"

The angel puckered his face trying to deny it, but even he couldn't; instead he nodded. "It's true, Sam. He uses you and Dean."

Crowley pushed aside a niggle of annoyance. That was just bad form on Cas' part, twisting Crowley's words to his own goody-two-shoes, feathered ends. "As if you and the rest of the Heavenly Hoard don't use the Winchesters, too. Don't play all lily-white here, Feathers. I know what Uriel or Mercurial or Whoever-The-Fuckiel did."

At least, Cas had the good grace to try to appear embarrassed. Not that he could be, because the winged gits didn't have such problems as human emotions. But still—he knew that Crowley was speaking the truth—for once—and he couldn't hide it.

"Right. But the thing is, right now, your brother is as useful as one of those pocket pups. Adorable as Hell, but face it. One good stomp and all go squish." Crowley spread his hands. "You have to get him back to size."

Sam glowered. "We're looking for the witch now."

"I know. And that's why I'm here. To tell you where she is and when she'll strike again. I mean, she is one of _my _children."

The historically younger Winchester brother shifted. Damn him, having second thoughts about turning Dean back. But he had to. _He had to! _"Exactly a week from now. In Plymouth. That's Massachusetts, if you don't know."

"I do." Sam felt annoyed by Crowley's tone; it was quite lovely. Crowley allowed himself to bathe in the man's negative emotions. He shivered with pleasure.

"Good. Then be there or be square. Or queer, as the case may be." Crowley stretched out his feelers and listened to the petulant bastard teen whimpering as he discovered his cell phone was fried. He smiled. "Right. My work here is done. At least, tonight. Winchester, Tart, Princess. Good night." Crowley snapped his fingers and disappeared.


	16. Chapter 16

_If you've ever read Dwight Swain's _Scene and Sequel_, then you'll recognize this for what it is: sequel. Like a little bridge between the action, a place for the reader and the characters to rest. Not much happens, but it gives everyone a chance to figure out what to do next.  
_

_ZZZzzzzzzz._

_Don't worry, Annie fans. She'll be back; she's just busy working right now. _

_I'm really hoping Cas will suffer no ill effects from raiding Bobby's fridge, though I have my doubts. Feel free to tell me what YOU think should happen. And is anyone else worried by the sudden and unexpected appearance of Dean's new toy?  
_

_Oh! And look! I'm over 100 reviews! I'm very excited by that-thank you all so much (for paying attention)._

* * *

**SIXTEEN**

At Bobby's desk, Sam frowned at his laptop.

"Are you sure Crowley meant Massachusetts, and not Minnesota? Because that could be problematic if you're wrong," Bobby said, and sat down on a nearby chair with Dean on his knee. The grizzled hunter began bouncing the boy, who rode astride and said "ah-ah-ah-ah" in time with each bounce; Sam was fairly sure Bobby didn't even notice he was doing it.

They'd become inured to many things in the few weeks Dean had become a toddler.

"Yes, Bobby. He specifically said 'Massachusetts'. What I'm not sure is—can we trust him?"

Bobby shrugged, switched Dean to his other knee, and resumed bouncing him. "We can trust Crowley about as much as we can trust anyone else. As Dean usually reminds us, angels are dicks, and they're supposed to be the _good_ guys."

"Di-i-i-i-i-i-cks!" Dean said, riding Bobby's knee.

"Exactly." Bobby switched him again. "What are you feeding this kid? He weighs a ton."

"Annie says he weighs exactly what he should." Sam sighed and bit his lip. "Still, I'm not sure I want to spend twenty-four hours in a car with Dean just to find I've been directed to the wrong place."

It was bad enough spending that much time in the car with his brother when he didn't need frequent diaper changes.

"Sorry, Sam." Bobby groaned and stopped jiggling his leg. "I don't think you have a choice. I mean, you could fly, but knowing Dean the way I do, I can guarantee that will be a worse hell than driving with him."

"I could take you." Cas appeared on the other side of the desk.

Funny, Sam mused, he was so used to the angel's appearances and disappearances now it didn't even faze him when the roar of wind and the flapping of feathers was heard. He remembered when he actually was excited about the angel.

He remembered when he trusted him. _Oh yes. That would have been yesterday._ He shot the angel a glance from narrowed eyes. _Dick._

He was saved from having to not answer the angel when Bobby said, "No thanks, Cas. You remember what happens to Dean when he travels with you. You zapped him about five miles from Penny Entwhistle's to here last night, and we're still waiting for things to get moving."

"I can fix that," Cas said, reaching to touch the boy's forehead.

"Whoa!" Bobby snatched him out of reach. "We're not going to meddle with his digestion. The prune juice we gave him was enough. You zap him too and he'll be pooping his brains out. No, thank you."

Cas perked up. "There's duice?"

"You don't want it—aw, _hell_. You know, you should really ask before you help yourself to the contents of someone's fridge and—for fuck's sake, use a glass, ya idjit!" Bobby put Dean on the floor and hurried to the kitchen, the toddler following in his wake like a baby duck chasing its momma.

"Ffffffuck! Fuck. Fuck!"

_Fuck._

The comment about Dean's digestion was only part of the reason Sam didn't want to travel via Angel Air. Mostly, however, it was because he'd been disturbed by Crowley's comment that the angels had used him and Dean as much as the demons. He knew it. The Winchesters were nothing but pawns in a giant game of chess, underworld versus celestial realms, and he was sick of playing. Even if that meant a shorter trip.

He closed the lid on his laptop and followed Bobby and Dean out the kitchen. "I suppose we could just take the trip in days instead of hours."

Bobby frowned and rubbed at his beard. "You going Star Trek, _Wrath of Khan_ on me, boy? That some kind of code?"

"No." Sam watched Dean opening and closing the lower cupboard doors. _Click-slam! Click-slam! Click-slam! _"I suppose I could break it up into five days of travel instead of one long stint. That should get us there in time—and give us a few days of wiggle room." He sat down at the table.

"You gonna stay in motels along the way?"

"Not much of a choice, I'm afraid. Can't sleep in the car. Can't camp out—I wouldn't trust Dean to stay put in a tent."

"I could watch him, Sam. I don't sleep." Cas sat down at the table, too, placing now-empty bottle of prune juice in front of him. "All gone duice."

Sam continued to ignore the angel. "I hate to use the credit cards that much—too much of a pattern. And I won't have a chance to rustle up some funds." He paused. "But there's no other choice, I guess. You want to come, Bobby?"

"Are you out of your mind? I'd rather staple gun my own head to the carpet than go on a car trip with baby Dean. Besides—I've got to man the phones. Couple of Hunters in Indiana on a hunt need me to play Fibbi Head Honcho." Bobby quirked a brow.

Dean finished slamming the cupboard doors and moved under the table; Sam felt a small hand on the top of his foot, then moving up his leg. He leaned to peek at his brother. "What are you doing under there?"

"Dee 'ide." His brother patted his shin. "Oo 'ide?"

"Can't fit, Dean. Sorry." Sam sighed. "I'm really not looking forward to doing this alone."

"I'll be there, Sam," Cas said.

Sam reached to ruffle Dean's hair.

"Too bad you can't ask your girl," Bobby said.

Sam's heart gave a little leap. _His girl._ "She'd have to take too many days off. Plus, she'd have to take Melia. If one kid in the back is going to be bad, can you imagine two? You think you want to staple your head to the carpet at the thought of just one..." Sam frowned. Even worse would be the ride back to Sioux Falls to drop Annie and Melia off again. Dean wouldn't want to stop every few hours for Melia, either—he'd be raring to drive on through. And that wouldn't be fair to either Annie or her little girl.

Not to mention how awkward it would be. Two full beds, three adults, one kid. He'd have to sleep with Dean—adult Dean—and that meant stolen blankets, hairy legs brushing his own and waking up with his snoring brother spooning against him with his morning dick pressed to his butt cheeks…he shuddered. No, sharing a bed with Dean-big or small-was _never_ comfortable.

On the other hand, it would have been fun to make Dean sleep with Melia; she could show him how pleasant it was to wake up with a small foot to the nuts. _Every freakin' morning. _Though to be honest, he'd take waking up to the pain of little Dean kicking his 'nads over waking up to an unconscious ass-assault from big Dean, any day.

"Boo!" Dean popped up near Sam's elbow from under the table. "Dee 'tare Dammy."

"You scare me all the time, Dean." Sam nodded, bent at the waist and lifted the little boy to his lap.

Dean placed his hands on either side of his face and patted his cheeks. "Do da bwow."

Sam puffed out his cheeks and tightened his lips so his brother could push the air out in a rude sound. The little boy giggled from his toes. He wiggled. "Do 'gain."

"Sam, I will ride in the Impala with you," Cas said, his tone insistent.

Before Sam could pointedly ignore the angel again, Dean turned his head, suddenly disinterested in Sam's puffed cheeks. "Ass wide!" He climbed down from his brother's lap to grab the angel's hand. "Go wide da twike. 'Mon, Assie."

"Okay." The angel gave Sam a _see? I'm _Dean's_ favorite_ kind of look and let the little boy lead him from the kitchen.

Bobby waited until the boy and his angel were gone before he kicked the leg of Sam's chair. "All right. Give. What's wrong with you, Frances? You're being kind of a bitch to Cas. Anything particular got your panties in a wad?"

So _you're_ the one who taught Dean to talk trash, Sam thought. "I'm sick of being played by the powers of Heaven and Hell," he said.

"Really." Bobby frowned. "Is that what this is about?"

"It's enough, isn't it?"

"Hell no, boy. What's the matter with you?" Bobby leaned over and gave Sam a slap on the back of the head.

"Ow!" Sam glared at the older hunter. The head slap had only hurt his pride, but still.

Bobby glared back. "You best get over this snit and get your head out of your ass. If you don't do this, your brother's gonna be little forever."

Sam opened his mouth to say he thought that wasn't a bad thing, but Bobby gave him another whack upside the head. "Do the right thing, ya idjit. That boy wasn't meant to be anything but a Hunter. He's got a destiny to fulfill, one way or another, and you need to sack up and get over it. Because big or little, it's gonna happen and I, for one, want him to have a snowball's chance. So hie your ass to Plymouth and find that bitch. Otherwise, your brother's dead and it will be all your fault."

_Crap. What? _

Sam stared after Bobby as he strode from the kitchen.

0-0-0-0-0

"You're taking this a bit to extremes, Sam." Bobby realized he might have done a better job convincing the young man than he'd intended.

"Oh no. Are we out of Teddy Grahams? I'm not driving cross-country without Teddy Grahams!" Sam looked frantically between his list and the items piled on Bobby's porch.

"I don't think the Allies prepped this much for D-Day." Bobby pulled the box of teddy-bear shaped cookies out from beneath a pile of Rescue Heroes. "Here ya' go, Ike."

Sam frowned. "No those are cinnamon-flavored. I need the honey ones. We can't go to Plymouth without honey-flavored Teddy Grahams! And goldfish. I need goldfish." He tapped the tip of his pen on the list attached to the clipboard. "And where's BooBoo Kitty? Dean needs BooBoo!"

Cas had given Dean the ginger-colored beanbag-style cat shortly after zapping him home on Halloween; the boy had barely put it down. Bobby had his suspicions that something was a bit off with BooBoo, but he wasn't sure what, exactly.

It was just a feeling he had.

"The kid has it. Calm down Sam."

"Calm down? Calm down!" Sam rounded on Bobby. "I can't calm down. I've got to make sure this goes perfectly. So I've broken the trip down into five days, roughly five hours per, not including stops for diaper changes and meals. With rest stops and snack breaks _blahblahblahblah_…"

Bobby stopped listening. Sam was in full bitch mode and while Bobby appreciated a well-thought out plan of attack as much as the next guy, there were just some times that he would have considered spontaneity just as good.

Spontaneous combustion, for example, would have been far favorable to listening to Sam's yammering.

The older hunter moved away to peer into the Impala. "You gonna stash your stuff in the trunk? 'Cause if you put it in the back with Fingers Malloy, he'll crack it open faster than you can say 'not suitable for children under three'."

Sam stopped mid-yammer; his forehead wrinkled so much, he looked like a Shar Pei. "I hadn't thought about that. Okay. Well. I guess I'll have to. But then, the trunk is pretty full and _blahblahblahblah_…" He started crossing items off his list and clucking furiously. He moved into the house, still talking to himself.

Bobby pushed his cap back on his head and scratched his scalp, looking across the yard to watch Dean and Cas. He noticed Dean floating in midair, clutching one of his stuffed beanbag cat's front paws. It dangled from his fist. _Well, that's one way to keep the little shit from running away on you._ He had to hand it to Cas, that was clever.

Cas twirled his finger and Dean flew around him in a circle like a toy airplane on a string.

Bobby shook his head. _That_ maneuver, however, was a recipe for upchuck if he'd ever seen one. Still, if he intervened, he'd have to take care of Dean while Cas attempted to "help" Sam; this was a far better solution for everyone. He sighed and watched the little Winchester soaring around Cas' head.

"Can I ask what we're waiting for? We do have places to go, witches to see. Tick tock, Bobby." Crowley's voice sounded at his elbow.

Bobby startled and turned to glare at the King of Hell. "What in the Sam Hill are you doing here?"

"Well, I _do_ have a vested interested in the results of this little road trip." Crowley looked across the yard at Dean and Cas. "Here. What's this? He trying to make the kid toss his tacos, or what?"

Sam slammed out of the screen door, still muttering. "Benedryl! I've got Benedryl. I know it's not the best thing to drug my brother, but—oh, hi Crowley—if I knock him out, I can probably avoid the chance he'll touch everything in the car or maybe even get out of his car seat and..." Sam pulled up short and turned to look at Bobby. "What is Crowley doing here?"

Bobby shrugged. "How the hell should I know? He just showed up." He turned to the Demon King. "What _are _you doing here?"

"I'm going with them, Love." Crowley grinned. "You don't think I'm going to trust Bullwinkle to get this done on his own, do you? I mean, Captain Feathers is completely useless. Look at him, twirling Winchester the smaller around like—_ohhhhhhh_…"

All three men winced and grimaced.

"Well, that's just plain nasty," Crowley said and wrinkled his nose.

"It's not good," Bobby agreed.

"Cas is _not_ riding in the car without a shower," Sam said and made a note on his clipboard.

"Good luck with that. I've been after him for years." Crowley frowned. "What are you feeding that kid, Sam? It looks like he puked up twice again his size."

"Need to change Dean's clothes..." Sam muttered. "I still haven't packed a suitcase. Bobby, do you have an extra duffle bag? I haven't replaced the diaper bag yet and—" He went back into the house, still talking to himself.

0-0-0-0-0

An hour, an angelic shower, a fresh diaper and a few wardrobe changes later, the Impala was packed and the boys were ready to storm the beach at Plymouth. Bobby stood on the porch with his hands in his pockets, scuffing the worn wooden boards with his toe.

How many times had he seen the Winchesters off on one of their quests? A thousand times, it seemed. No matter how many, it always felt the same, with his heart in his stomach and his eyes full of what could be tears but what Bobby told himself was just a reaction to dust kicked up by something. Like wind.

But this was the first time the car was loaded with such a motley crew.

"See you in a few days. If you see Annie, tell her I'll call her tonight when we get to the motel." Sam said, and gunned the engine. The Impala rocked and roared with its own power, nothing to do with either the celestial or demonic powerhouses occupying its interior.

Bobby nodded and lifted his hand in farewell. Sam saluted with a finger from the forehead. Crowley nodded from his shotgun seat; in the backseat, beside Dean, Cas waved. Dean kicked his feet and spun BooBoo by his tail. The Impala pulled away, the yellow "Baby on Board" sign swinging from its suction cup hanger in the rear window.

He watched it swing all the way down the drive, until the car turned out onto the interstate and disappeared.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: I really didn't mean to post so little so soon, but sometimes a hook is a hook is a hook, and you don't want to waste those. So—with no further ado, I present: Chapter Seventeen, Part One: On the Highway to Hell...(with apologies to Douglas Adams).

* * *

SEVENTEEN

Finally. They were on their way. And though Sam didn't really want to change Dean back, he'd knew that Bobby was right. Dean was, at heart, through and through, a Hunter. And not just a Hunter, but THE Hunter. The culmination of pulled strings and spell work throughout the ages, to manipulate a Campbell and a Winchester into one perfect being. And then, there was him. One, tall, less-than-perfect-but-sometimes-almost-perfect if-you-forgot-about-the-sleeping-with-a-demon-part, being. Which really wasn't the same.

in other words, despite the best efforts of Life, the Universe and Everything, Sam Winchester was a failure.

Sam sighed and settled back into the seat. The road whined under the tires, trees and signs slipped past. Here he was…this was his life. On the road again. For another five days. And beyond.

He missed Annie already.

Beside him, Cas shifted. "Sam...Sam...are we there, yet?"

"Bloody hell. We just pulled onto the highway, you feathered git. Where's your sense of navigation?" Crowley kicked the back of the seat.

"Don't. Do. That." Sam could see Crowley in the rearview; he caught the demon's gaze with his own and held it.

"Why? You worried about footprints on the upholstery?" Crowley made a face and looked away. "It's like a bleeding shrine back here. What's with the little plastic soldier stuck in the ashtray?"

"Don't touch it."

"Did Dean carve your initials back here? Awww. Look at that. With a little pentagram instead of a heart."

"Shut up, Crowley."

"Dean and Sammy, sittin' in a tree—"

"Sam?" Cas interrupted.

"K-I-S-S-I-N-G—"

"Sam?"

"You know, some people think it should be more like 'F-U-C-K'—"

"Sam?"

"-I-N-G'!"

"Sam?"

"What!" Sam unclenched his teeth and turned to look at the angel sitting beside him.

"First comes love…"

"My vessel. It's feeling...some kind of disturbance." Cas' brow wrinkled. Sam noticed that he appeared to be perspiring. Which was strange, because angels weren't supposed to sweat.

"Then comes marriage…"

"BooBoo Kitty!" Dean crowed suddenly; the beanbag ginger cat flew through the air to land on the Impala's wide dashboard.

"What's the matter, Cas?"

"I feel…I feel…" He looked down at his stomach. "My vessel's body appears to be growling at me." The angel frowned. "It feels…there's something…"

_Oh, crap._ Angels weren't supposed to suffer from intestinal discomfort, either. "It's the prune juice. Damn it, Cas! Hang on." Sam started scanning the highway for road signs, desperately trying to remember off which exit the closest rest room was. In the distance, he saw the sign promoting places to stop and he recognized the familiar golden arches. _Praise the powers that be. And their little dog, too. _For once, something in the eternal suckfest that was his sucky, suck-filled life, something went right. _  
_

"Then comes Sammie with a baby carriage." Crowley chuffed a laugh. "Not so far off from the truth, eh, Sammy?"

"Shut up, Crowley." He didn't have time to be tormented by the King of Hell. Because Cas was about to go poop on the front seat of Dean's car, and Sam couldn't imagine a worse torture than hearing his brother complain about it for the rest of his natural life. Which probably wouldn't be that long, considering who he was and what he did. But still... "Cas, can you hold it?" _Please, hold it. Please. Hold it._

"Hold what? With what?" Cas groaned and shifted on the seat. "Sam. This is…uncomfortable."

"Don't—just don't let…" _Oh God._ How could he tell the angel not to do what he didn't even realize what he needed to do?

In the backseat, Crowley giggled. "Do it. Do iiiiiiiiit!"

"Shut up, Crowley!" Sam's hands grew sweaty on the wheel. No nice, ergonomic, modern vinyl steering wheel with a textured grip; no, this was a 1967 steering wheel, and in '67 they didn't bother with candy-assed conveniences like non-slip safety surfaces. If you got sweaty palms because you had an Angel of the Lord about to drop a deuce on the front seat of your brother's beloved classic Chevy, then you just had to suck it up and hang the fuck on tight, Nancy.

Or Frances, as the case may be.

Sam wiped his palms—one at a time—on the legs of his jeans and stared grimly ahead. There was a McDonald's about 100 yards from the exit. And that was two and a half miles away.

"Dam? Do Wheels."

"Not right now, Dean."

"Sam?"

"Hold on, Cas. Almost there."

"Do Wheels!"

"Dean! Later!"

"Sam…"

"Wait!"

"Moose."

"Shut _up_, Crowley!"

Sam gripped the wheel in a death grip and floored the engine. If it was the last thing he was going to do, he'd get them to the men's room of Mickey Dee's. Maybe in one piece or in pieces—it didn't matter. If Sam Winchester was going to go down, he'd do it fighting and he'd take them all with him. At least he'd succeed at something.

0-0-0-0-0

Sam held his one dollar cup of muddy coffee in a numb grip and watched Dean run around the fast food playground, BooBoo Kitty in his fist.

Crowley moved in to sit beside him. "Slide over, Moose. Don't want to block your view of your brother. In case he's—I dunno—attacked by a clown or something." He grinned and gestured to the life-sized plastic Ronald McDonald statue Sam was studiously trying to ignore. "Ooh. Scary. Look at those floppy shoes."

"Shut up, Crowley."

"Those big baggy pants...that brilliant red hair. That painted-on smile!"

"Shut up, Crowley!" He clutched the Styrofoam cup and squeezed.

The King of Hell chuckled. "Not a bad deal, this. Bring your kid, eat some processed food, ratchet up your cholesterol and let the tyke blow off some steam. Speaking of which...Cas still indisposed?"

"Yeah." Sam tipped a brow at the demon. "Where were you?"

"Checking in with some of my team members." He pointed to a pair of little old ladies seated at a booth on the other side of the glass partitioning the play place from the rest of the restaurant. He nodded at them; they waved and their eyes flickered black.

_For my benefit, I'm sure._ Sam sighed and sipped his sludge.

"Ohh. Did you see that? That little bastard just hit Dean. Here! Bugger off you little git!" Crowley jumped up and hurried to rescue the smallest Winchester.

That's my job, Sam thought. But as long as no one got blasted to Hell, he could hold off. If there was one thing he'd learned since becoming a parent—of sorts—it was to take your breaks when you could, because they didn't come often. Or easily.

Crowley came back, brushing sulfur from the lapels of his tailored suit. "Unbelievable. You know, in my day—when I was a human, that is—little shits like that weren't suffered to live. Never mind harass innocent small boys at the playground. Not that we had playgrounds. Mostly it was go out in the muddy field and mind the cowshit. And that was on a Sunday, _if_ you were lucky enough to be allowed to play." He slouched. "I wasn't. I had to sit in the house and pretend to think about God and read the Bible and other holy shit. Speaking of which..." He turned and looked over his shoulder. "How long has he been in there, anyway?"

"A while. He drank a whole lotta prune juice." _Probably not a good idea, in retrospect._ Sam watched Dean climbing a series of platforms to reach a tubed slide that stretched and curled its way from close to the ceiling. "How tall is that, you think?"

"I dunno. I'm not an architect. Pretty fucking high, is my best answer. Whoever built it must have wanted the little monsters to die. If they fell from up there…" Crowley frowned. "He can't fall, can he?"

Sam shook his head. "They've got it built so that no one can fall out."

"Unless one of the nets is loose. Hold on. I'll be right back." Crowley disappeared.

The fact that it was the King of Hell checking the screws, fastenings, nets, and other parts of the playground platform didn't exactly make Sam breathe any easier about Dean's safety. But, he'd barely panted about it to begin with—he knew the device was safe.

Funny that Crowley was so concerned. He wondered what the demon had up his sleeve to be so closely tied to them right now; there was no reason for him to be doing a ride along to Plymouth. Unless he figured Sam wasn't going to get them there.

The whole situation was hinky.

Crowley reappeared. "Safe as can be. Smells like wee in those tubes. About as hygienic as playing inside a sewer pipe. At least there aren't any rats." He sat down. "Your little brother is amazing. Do you know—there's a three-year-old up there who's afraid to move? And there Dean is, just chugging along like the little engine that fucking could, climbing. Fearless, he is. All of two feet tall and absolutely without a worry. Amazing."

"He's my big brother; he's not my little brother." Sam played with the plastic lock on the top of the coffee lid.

"As long as you're changing his diapers, he's your little brother." Crowley shifted, then spun around in his seat. "You don't suppose he buggered off on us, do you?"

"Who? Dean?"

"No. Ass, you arse." The demon pointed with his chin. "How long does it take an angel to take a shit?" He paused. "That sounds like the start of a bad joke. Or the beginning of a medieval theological treatise."

Sam shrugged. "Why do you care how long it takes?"

"Because." He sat up straight, craning his neck. "I'm going to go check on him." The demon disappeared, creating more questions for Sam than answers.

"Hi Dam." Dean pushed Sam's arm aside with his head so he could climb into his lap. Sam wrinkled his nose. Crowley was right. The boy smelled like…well, wee. And it wasn't his own. _Yuck._ "Come on, buddy. Let's change your clothes. You stink." He stood, lifted the diaper/duffle bag onto his shoulder and hoisted his brother up to hold him by his side. Like a book. With legs. Sam started toward the rest room.

The men's room door swung open. Crowley emerged, his eyes wide. He headed for Sam. "Run." He ran past.

"What?" Sam turned to watch him.

Crowley stopped, doubled back, and grabbed Sam by the arm not holding Dean. "Don't ask, you Neanderthal. Just do. Take that Semper Fi, no questions asked, taking-orders-is-my-middle-name mentality foisted on you by your father and fucking RUN." The demon king chattered; with preternatural strength, he dragged Sam along behind him. "Run, you gigantic daft twit. _Run!_"

Sam started running.

"Not fast enough." Crowley grabbed Dean from his grasp and ran faster.

"Hey! Dean! Crowley! Come back here, you bastard!" Sam reached for the bone-handled knife. He wished he still had demon blood coursing through him, and the ability to exorcise Crowley with just a few words. It didn't matter. He'd do whatever it took to kill Crowley before he could steal Dean again—

"Unlock the door! Unlock the fucking doors!" Instead of vanishing, the demon king stood by the rear door of the Impala, hopping up and down like a demented leprechaun. "Oh hell, never mind! I'll do it. I'll do it!" He flicked his fingers at the doors and all of them unlocked. Crowley flung Dean into his car seat and leaped in beside him; he fumbled with the car seat straps as Sam climbed into the driver's seat.

"What the hell is—"

"Drive, Moose! DRIVE!" He finished with the buckles and sat back. "Don't pause, don't pass go. Just drive the fuck out of here."

The ground shook.

"Oh. That's not good." Sam put the key in the ignition.

"Ya think? What are you waiting for? Don't just sit there—"

The picture windows on the side of the restaurant shattered in a synchronized pattern, from the rear of the building, forward.

Sam started the Impala. "What about Cas—"

"He's on his own. He'll be fine. Go. GO!"

Sam put the car into gear and sped from the parking lot just as a loud explosion could be heard; the Impala jounced with the shock wave. _There goes the alignment._

Dean was going to be _sooo _pissed.

Sam looked into the rear-view mirror just in time to see the life-sized statue of Ronald McDonald shoot up through the roof of the restaurant as if blasted from a cannon; it soared through the air and disappeared from view. Seconds later, unexpectedly, the clown landed on the road, directly in the path of the Impala. Sam swerved; the clown cracked and crumbled into a pile of yellow and red plastic pieces.

Only a shoe remained intact.

Sam raced by it with the pedal pressed to the floor.

"Oooh," Dean said. "Clown go boom."

And worse. It looked like Cas had gone boom, too.

* * *

_Oh, dear. This is not really a good way to start a road trip._

_If you enjoyed the exploding Cas thing, I suggest you check out Lampito's The Man Who Spewed Too Much. My apologies for having a similar situation with my version of Cas, but seriously. Angel of God. An omnipotent pandimensional being. And a toilet. Who do you think is going to win?_

_At least in Lampito's story, Cas was distressed because he swallowed Leviathans; in mine, it only took a little prune juice. Hm. Ultimately, I must tell you...it all feeds into Sam's inner angst. (That would be emotional blockage.) So ultimately, horrible road trips are like the prune juice to Sam's emotional blockage. Everybody get ready. He's going to puuuuuuurrrrrge!_

_But not in the next chapter..._


	18. Chapter 18

_Author's note: You'd think it would be easy to write a road trip with a demon, an angel, a toddler and a man full of angst, but this one was HARD. My apologies to Motel Six, where they'll leave the light on for you. Also, my apologies to Dr. Seuss. (Who should__—if he wasn't dead__—be apologizing to those of us who had to read One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish to our pre-readers over and over and over...I won't even talk about Fox in Sox. I make no promises about Crowley and Green Eggs and Ham. Sam I am.)_

_Speaking of reading (though not necessarily the works of Dr. Seuss), I'm enjoying reading your reviews and pm's. Thank you. Write more! They're like postcards from home for a person exiled to summer camp. Or trapped in a box with a fox in socks. (Oooh! Ooh. Fan girl moment. Which "fox" in socks would you like to be trapped with? Pant, pant, pant...)  
_

* * *

EIGHTEEN

Several minutes later, something besides Ronald McDonald swooped into the oncoming path of the Impala. Sam sat up straight. "Cas!"

His heart filled with joy.

And then it fell to his stomach as he plowed into the angel, who rolled over the hood with a _bang_ and onto the roof with a _thunk_. He saw a flash of beige trench coat in the rear window as Cas' body rolled off the trunk and disappeared.

Sam lost control of the car and swerved for a second time in less than five minutes. This time, he almost met a semi hurtling head-first down its proper lane; he pressed the pedal to the floor, turned the wheel and roared into a ditch on the wrong side of the road, where the Impala slid to a harrowing, sandy stop.

"Yay!" Dean clapped his hands. "Big twuck! Honk! Hooooooooonk!"

Crowley pulled himself up from the floor behind the driver's seat. Sam looked in the rearview to see the demon's hair standing up in clumps and swimming with goldfish crackers. His tie was askew and his matching handkerchief dangled limply from his pocket. "Bloody hell. Was that Feathers?"

"It was. But now..." Sam muttered, looking through the rear window to where Cas had been standing—or _would have been_ standing. But he was gone. "Oh my God. I killed him. I killed Cas."

_Oh no. And then, the semi…_

Sam's heart rose to his mouth. To escape certain death from…_well_…forcible ejection from a McDonald's toilet, only to be hit by the Impala then squashed by a truck moments later…it didn't seem fair.

Life was never fair. That was the problem. Sam fought a rising resentment toward God, the Universe…everything. And how were he and Dean (especially Dean) supposed to make the world a better place without Dean's angel?

Memories assaulted him. Cas, wearing a worm on his upper lip. Cas, smiting a demon. Cas, saving Dean from a sand-flinging three-year-old. Cas, healing the elderly. Cas, rescuing a restaurant full of people from a petulant spirit. Cas, sitting with his nose aglow while Bobby removed a Lego.

And now…his last memory of the angel would be the flap of his trench coat as he rolled onto the path of an oncoming semi.

When Dean became an adult again, how would Sam explain what had happened?

Worse, what would Dean's reaction be?

Maybe he should tell him by text. From the other side of the country. Maybe if he purchased a plane ticket ahead of time...He hung his head. Another failure. Another way he'd wronged his brother and screwed up the carefully planned orchestration of his own Destiny. _Sam Winchester. Consummate fuck up._

There was a sudden fluttering of wings and a rush of air beside him as Cas appeared in the passenger seat. "Hello, Sam."

"Jesus Christ!" Sam couldn't help the girly scream that squeaked from his throat. He stared. _Alive! He's alive!_

"No. It's me." Cas looked puzzled.

"Cas!" Overjoyed, Sam leaped across the seat and pulled the angel into a hug. "You're alive!" He put his hands on the angel's shoulders to reassure himself. Yes, definitely there, in one, large angel-shaped piece and most certainly alive. "You're not dead!"

"No." Cas agreed. "Are we there, yet?"

"Oh for fuck's sake. Does it look like we're there yet, ya daft feathered git?" Crowley leaned forward, reached out and snapped the top of Cas' ear with his forefinger and thumb in such a way that Sam knew, with the knowledge gained from a lifetime of being a beleaguered little brother, the demon had been worried, too. His heart warmed.

"Ow!" Cas covered his ear with his palm. "Sam! Crowley nazzed me!"

"I did not," the demon lied and sat back in his seat, a cheerful and satisfied smile on his face. _Yep._ Definitely worried, Sam asserted.

_"_Ass!_" _Dean cheered from the back seat.

The angel vanished, then reappeared in the seat beside his favorite boy, who kicked his legs and squealed. "My Ass! BooBoo Kitty!" He hit Cas over the head with his beanbag cat then leaned forward to press his mouth to his angel's cheek. "Dee wuv oo."

Crowley made gagging noises. "Oh, that's just revolting."

"Crowley. You come sit up here with me." Sam wasn't sure he wanted his little big brother to be the only barrier between the forces of Heaven and Hell.

The demon king spread his hands. "What? Seriously, Moose? You don't think I should stay back here to chaperone? In case some squicky angel/boy-man fanfic breaks out?"

Sam paused, considered, shook his head. It _could_ happen...but probably wouldn't. Not in this plot, anyway. "I'm sure it will be fine. Get up here."

"I dunno. It's feeling a little hot—_ow_! You little beast!" Crowley put his hand over his eye. "Did you see that? The bastard punched me. In the eye!"

"Doe 'way, Cowwy." Dean frowned.

"Yes, Crowley. Go away." Cas echoed. "We don't want you back here."

"It's a good thing for you I have an interest in making things turn out all right for you." Crowley shook his finger at Dean. "Or else you'd be a hellhound treat, you would."

"_Thhpt_!" Dean punched him in his other eye.

"Ow!"

"Duckin' sonavabitch." _Whap._

"Ow! Sam! He nazzed me! The little shit nazzed _me_!"

On the other hand, Sam realized, there was probably no one better qualified to keep Crowley and Cas apart than his big little brother. He shrugged and put the car in gear.

_Two hours later..._

"_One fish. Two fish. Red fish. Blue fish._"

"What da fish doin'?'"

"The fish is leaning on the water. See the picture?"

"Yah. Fish wean."

_...sound of page turning._ Sam smiled as he listened. Despite Crowley, Cas had things under control in the back. Better, he was reading and Dean _liked_ it.

"Ass swim? Wike fish?"

"I do. I like to swim like a fish."

"Oh bollocks. Fuck the bloody fish, Cas."

"No."

_...sound of page turning._

"Ooh. Dat fish dwive a car!" Dean giggled a belly laugh. Sam's heart clenched and he shivered with happiness. He couldn't help it. Something about Dean's belly laughs did that to him.

"Yes. But let's do this page, first. _Black fish...blue fish...old fish...new fish..._"

"I'd like to fish _you_ is what I'd like to do. Feathered arse."

"_This one has a little star_—"

"Heh. A little star. So tiny. Wanna see _my_ star, Dean?"

"Shut up, Cowwy." _Whap._

"Ow! That's the fourth time today! You little git!"

_Three hours later..._

"Wead it 'gin, Ass."

"Okay, Dean."

"Please. I'm begging you. In the name of all that's holy—and unholy. Please. Not again."

"_My shoe is off. My foot is cold. I have a bird I like to hold. My hat is old. My teeth are gold. And now my story is all told._"

"Thank God. Please don't read it again, Cas. Please."

"Wead it 'gin."

"Okay, Dean. _My shoe is off_—"

"For fuck's sake! You've read the same two pages fifty thousand bloody times! Why? What is it that he doesn't get? There's a shoe and a cold foot and a bird you can hold and an old hat and gold fucking teeth. It's like a conversation between an old whore and a pimp. That's it! There's nothing else! It's not the answer to the universe! It's nothing!"

_Pause._

"_I have a bird I like to hold_—"

"AAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH!" There was a flurry and a cloud of yellow sulfur filled the back seat. Crowley appeared in the front seat.

_Rotten eggs._ Sam gagged and rolled down his window. "Dean? Dean! Are you okay?"

"Cwowwy do poop?" Dean asked from the middle of the cloud.

There was a choking noise from Cas' side of the car; then the air cleared. Sam rolled up his window again.

"That was unpleasant," Cas observed.

"That was necessary," Crowley tossed over his shoulder. "Fucking twit."

_Half an hour later..._

"_My hat is old_—"

"It's made of mold."

"It is not. That's not what the words say."

"Said the angel 'cause he's gay."

"I'm not deliriously happy at all—"

"I'm not even very tall! In fact, I'm small."

"I am not! In my true form, I'm not small at all!"

"I just have some little balls."

"I don't have any balls."

"I am smooth, just like a Ken."

"What? Sam? What is he saying?"

"There was no pecker, now or then—"

"I don't understand—"

"All I have are loathsome wings."

"My wings are not loathsome—"

"But I don't even have a thing—"

"I do, too have a thing! I have a thing!"

"No you don't."

"Yes, I do!"

"Don't!"

"Do!"

"Do not."

"Do too!"

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh!"

"Nuh-uh."

"Stop it!"

"Stop it!"

"No, you stop it!"

"No, you!"

"You!"

"You!"

_Fifteen minutes later..._

"You!"

"You!"

Behind Sam, Dean sighed. "BooBoo Kitty." He tossed it over Sam's shoulder; the cat landed on the dashboard and stared at Sam with glassy green eyes. He could relate. He felt pretty glassy-eyed, too.

It was ironic, Sam realized. Cas and Crowley had only picked up where he and Dean had once left off. He thought of all the time spent in stupid, repetitive arguments in this very car. He thought of his father, in the front seat, quietly gulping rotgun from a flask and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, and he realized suddenly that it was a miracle his father hadn't pulled over and tossed both of them out on the side of the road and never returned.

"You!"

"You!"

Sam clenched his teeth. Countless road trips. Where he and Dean snarked and sniped the whole way and his father clenched _his_ teeth and glared in the mirror, and finally, when he couldn't take it anymore, spun his arm around and took out the entire backseat with one blow, leaving the carnage of snuffling children.

Come to think of it, it was usually after one of those backseat swipes that he and Dean would find themselves dropped off at Bobby's. In a flash of illumination, he realized: his father wasn't trying to dump them or abandon them, he was trying to _save_ them. Because he was probably about to kill them.

Sam knew how he felt. _Dad, if you're out there somewhere—not sure if you can hear me…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be such a douchebag._

"Sam. I heard that," Cas intoned.

"I heard that, too," Crowley said. "But for the record, _I'm _not the one being a douchebag!"

"Yes you are."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Not."

"Are."

There are times in a man's life where he isn't really responsible for his own actions. And, Sam couldn't be sure that it wasn't some little piece of John's DNA clinging to a part of the car he loved as much as his oldest son did, that called to his ghost and, in turn, possessed his youngest son. Because a little bubble of rage shot up from his chest and Sam couldn't stop the gruff growl that stuttered from between his clenched teeth. **"That's it. _Both_ of you! Cut it out!"**

He could hear his father in his own voice, and he wondered again if it were possible that he was channeling his father. And the Dad within roared, "If I see one feather—one _granule_ of sulfur—on that upholstery, I'm gonna kick your asses all over the highway!"

It was John Winchester, with his broad shoulders and heavy dark eyebrows who spoke with his deep voice. "Don't make me pull this car over! We're almost to the motel, and if I have to stop again before I get there, I'm kicking asses. _Do you hear me?_"

_Wow. That was scary. I sounded just like Dad._

He looked in the rear view. _Dean!_ The little boy was sitting in his car seat with his mouth hanging open and tears rimming in his eyes. They looked huge and greener than ever. _Aw, hell._ His heart melted. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm not mad at you. It was these two asses that I was yelling at."

"Ass?" The little boy said, in an unsure voice. He turned to his angel and popped his thumb into his mouth as the tears spilled down his cheeks.

"I'm right here, Dean." Cas put his arm around the boy. Dean plunged his fingers into Cas' messy hair and bent his head to cuddle close.

_An hour later..._

Sam stared in the mirror. Dean had fallen asleep, still cuddled next to Cas with his head on the angel's shoulder. The angel sat with his arm around the boy; because he didn't get tired and his circulation didn't get cut off, he could remain in the same position for as long as necessary. Right now, it was necessary for him to snuggle Sam's big little brother.

And it was all Sam's fault.

"Remind you of anything?" Crowley nudged him.

"No." Sam turned his attention back to the road.

"Liar."

"Shut up, Crowley." Sam reached out to twist on the radio. No buttons in a '67. Just shiny silver knobs. Predictably, _Highway to Hell_ came on. He sighed.

"A little joke, that."

"Not a funny one."

"I think it is." Crowley paused. Then he faced Sam. "Your whole life, Dean was your wubby."

"What?"

"Use your imagination, Samsquatch. Wubby. Lovey. Teddy. Whatever. He was always there for you, ready to protect you, to comfort you. And now, you're his wubby. Except when he's got Cas."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is. So really...you're like Daddy, and Cas is the Dean for _your_ Dean." He grinned. "Ironic. But my question is—what are you going to be for him when he's a grown up again? Have you thought about it?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. He didn't want to think about it.

"Exactly. It sucks, doesn't it?" The King of Hell blinked back into the rear seat.

0-0-0-0-0

Sam pulled the Impala into the motel parking lot and parked in front of the office. He put the car into Park. "I'll be right out. _Don't_ touch anything."

"Sam?" Cas questioned just as he got out.

Sam winced. _Now what?_ He turned, leaned back into the car. "What, Cas?"

"Can I touch myself?"

Crowley tittered. "If you can find yourself."

Cas frowned as he peered at the demon king from the corner of his narrowed eyes. "I'm just saying. _I'm_ anything. But Sam said not to touch anything. Clearly, that is impossible as I am unable not to touch myself. At least, as long as I remain in this vessel, which is, of course, my intention."

"Yes, Cas. You can touch yourself."

"Can I touch the car?"

"Yes. You can touch yourself and the car, but nothing—no _one_—else." Sam closed the door and started for the motel's office. Behind him, he heard Cas say, "What do you mean 'if I can find yourself'? Are you implying I can't find myself?"

"It's hard to find something that's not there."

"What do you mean? I'm here."

"Not _all_ of you is there."

"Of course all of me is there. Here. It's—I'm—oh! You're...you...demon!"

"Ooh. Nice one. You're a dink, you know that?"

He ignored the kerfluffle that sounded from the interior of the Impala as he went into the office.

When he got back to the car, it was silent. Cas was snuffling; Crowley appeared to be gloating. He was, Sam noticed, back in the rear of the car next to Dean. He narrowed his eyes and opened the car door.

"Cowey nazz Ass." Dean said as he got in. Sam glared at the demon through the mirror.

"You little nark!" Crowley turned to stare at Dean. "I did not."

Cas turned his hurt expression to Sam and looked theatrically sad. "I did not touch anything _or_ anyone. Even when they touched me." He shot Crowley a look. "_I_ do what I'm told."

"You're a suck ass, you are." Crowley complained.

"I could smite you, you know. Smite you hard."

Sam swiped his hand over his face. "Guys…please. No one—and I mean no one—is smiting anyone. Not tonight. Look, we're all tired and cranky. Let's just have some dinner, and call it a day. We'll get a fresh start in the morning."

"There. See? We'll get a fresh start in the morning." Crowley turned to look at Cas. "Feathered baby."

The toddler beamed. "Cowey! Ducking ass!" And he headbutted the King of Hell in the nose.

0-0-0-0-0

"Date. Weah 'tay'n 'ere?" Crowley stood in the motel doorway, one of Dean's diapers pressed to his bleeding nose.

"Yes. This is where we're staying." Sam held Dean to his hip and looked around the room, hesitant to let his little big brother touch the floor. For one thing, it wasn't Dean proofed; there were sharp corners, exposed outlets, furniture with chipped and peeling paint (so tasty!), a heavy, old television perched on a rickety-looking television stand—not to mention a gas stove in the kitchenette.

Although, if they were lucky, Dean would turn the knobs while they slept and kill them all.

But still. It was dirty, something that had never bothered him as much as it did with a toddler in tow. "I don't think they've changed out the carpet since 1972." He paused. "Is it brown…or orange?"

"Dis ib abballing," Crowley said. "I'de nob gowin t'day 'ere."

"Nobody said you have to." Sam said, wondering if it would be better to sleep on towels on top of the bedspreads or if they could risk opening the covers and sleeping on the sheets—which may or may not have been laundered. "You can go to Hell."

And then, there was the whole question of bedbugs.

"I dust might. Dis is gwoss."

Cas stood in the middle of the room. He turned to Crowley. "You'd rather be in Hell than in this motel room?"

"Id waber be adywheah dan dis motel woom." Crowley removed the diaper from his nose. "Oh. Oh! Am I still bweeding?"

The angel narrowed his eyes and turned away. "Sam, I will protect Dean from anything he could pick up in this room."

"Any'ting he cud pick up? Wait. Wet me bwow my dnose." Crowley pushed past Sam to go into the bathroom. They heard him begin to gasp. "Oh. Oh! Oh no! No, no, no…" The King of Hell came back out, shaking his head. "No. That dud it. Web dnot tayin' heah."

"Why? What's wrong?" Sam started for the bathroom; Crowley stopped him with a hand to the chest.

"You don't wan' know. Uh uh." He gagged. "Dipgutting. We are out of heah." _Snap! _

There was a whoosh, a flash of light and a small bang!, and the four of them were standing in a completely different room.

Floor to ceiling windows showed them the vista of a city at night; in the not-too-far distance, Sam could see…"Um…Is that the Eiffel Tower?"

"Yeth." Crowley moved through one of the doors to Sam's right; he could hear him blowing his nose. "So much better!" the demon called—it echoed.

Cas turned to look at him. "Sam. We aren't in Wisconsin any more."

"Where the hell are we?" Sam demanded.

"Paris. The Four Seasons George V. Don't worry about the cost, I have it covered." Crowley headed for the phone on an end table by the pillowed couch. "Room service anyone? I'm starving."

Sam put Dean down; his brother climbed on the couch beside Crowley and began pushing the pillows to the floor. "H'ray!"

"We can't stay here." He looked around, dazed. The whole thing felt wrong. He didn't belong here. _They_ didn't belong here.

"What? You'd rather go back to Motel Icks? Where they'll leave the lice on for you? I think not. And look—Skippy here likes it. Don't you, Dean?"

"Cwowwy!" The boy leapt off the couch to land in the pile of pillows. "Ass! See? Dee fwy!"

* * *

_Wow. Paris. O-la-la. Even I didn't expect this development. And to be honest, I'm worried. If adult Dean didn't poop for a week after traveling Angel Air, what's going to happen to toddler Dean after flying _par Avion Demon? Merde.


	19. Chapter 19

_Author's Note: I always hate to read people's excuses and apologies at the tops of their chapters. _

_Consequently, I'm sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up. But work and kids and marriage and bills and had to put together and do a writer's workshop and blahbedeblahblah and bleh. To be honest, this chapter just didn't want me to write it. But I persisted. And then, I realized, I needed to finish it before I watched SPN tonight and Sam made me too cranky to think nice things about him. Grrr. Season Nine Sam. I wish I _could_ sic toddler Dean on him. Speaking of snippy Season Nine Sam, happy belated birthday to Mr. Ackles (who is not reading this story. Ah well. His loss.). I want cake!  
_

_Thank you for all your kind and amazing reviews and suggestions. It's incredible to know you're out there. But enough of this. Onwards, to chapter__—_

* * *

NINETEEN

As hunters, Sam and Dean's life was anything but routine. Rather, it had a routine, but no schedule. As far as Sam was concerned, it consisted of hours of sheer boredom (usually spent in the car with Dean, listening to the same five cassette tapes over and over again) interspersed with moments of sheer terror and horror (times when your brother was torn to shreds by a hellhound and dragged to Hell, for example)—and the occasionally unexpected (like getting caught in a time loop and living the same stupidly horrific Tuesday over and over again about a billion times).

But when Dean became a toddler all that changed. And quickly. Not only because the Internet parenting sites told Sam that it needed to change, but because it only made sense to have a schedule. And a distinct lack of Hellhounds.

Right now, Dean's schedule was blown to smithereens. Sam wasn't sure about the Hellhounds'—he could only imagine they were missing their master. But that didn't matter.

What _did_ matter was that Dean still hadn't pooped from his flight with Cas on Halloween. And God only knew (maybe Lucifer, knew, too, but Sam doubted it and wasn't about to ask) what the repercussions of a first-class blink on L'Air Demon would be. He hoped it wouldn't be constipation times three or some other Biblical number. Like a tripled six.

There really was only one course of action: to try the best he could to maintain some kind of normalcy for his toddler brother. Even if they were in Paris, after driving all day on the highway to hell. There would be a normal sort of bedtime routine: dinner, bath, books, bed.

_Et bon nuit, mon petit frere. _

And if that didn't work, there was always Benedryl.

And maybe more prune juice. (But not for Cas.)

He decided the bedroom he'd entered would be his—there was no reason to look at any of the other rooms; this one was far more luxurious than any he'd ever seen or stayed in during his lifetime. Sam didn't know much about interior decorating, if anything, but he could appreciate the difference between a motel like the one they'd originally checked into and the one they were in; he realized that one night here would cost the same as several weeks there.

And no one would want to spend several weeks there. But _he_ could enjoy this one night.

He sank into the luxurious, pillowed bed and stared around. Predictably, the room looked very French. Very _Provençal_. Was that the word? Lots of _toile_ and all that.

_Crap._ Sam promised himself to never, ever, let adult Dean know he knew those words. And if anyone, especially a hunter, especially _Dean_, asked about his stay at the George V (with Crowley), he'd say it was "nice but Crowley was an asshat".

Which wasn't even a lie.

_Holy shit._ He stared at the ceiling. What the hell was he doing here? He was in Paris!

He got up to look out into the common room, where Crowley stood surveying the city from their floor to ceiling windows, his hands on his hips. He looked a little like Napoleon regarding his empire and considering his next move. _No, wait…_A lot like Napoleon. _Without the hat._

_Great. And he's riding shotgun on our trip. _

Ah well. He'd keep his eyes open—as usual—and not allow himself to be lulled into complacency by the demon's tricks. He took a deep breath. "Um…Crowley, I'll just sleep in this—"

The King of Hell snapped his fingers and Sam's and Dean's dufflebags appeared on the luggage stand. "Oh. Thank you!"

"No problem, mate." Crowley turned and picked up the remote on the coffee table.

Sam closed his door, and moved to look out a window with a little niggle of a squee. _Paris!_ He was in Paris! _Look, there's a Paris building and a Paris street scene and little French cars trapped in congested little Parisian knots..._ He couldn't help the near-hysterical giggle that escaped his mouth.

First he knew the word _toile_, then he giggled.

Sam frowned. This was _so_ not good. He was turning into a girl. Dean was right. Call him Frances and buy him a dress. It was all over.

There was a crash from the adjoining room. _Dean! _What had his little big brother broken that he couldn't afford to fix even with stolen credit cards? Sam left the window (_overlooking Paris! Squee! _) and hurried to stare out into the common room.

Instead of a toddler-shaped Dean and something terribly expensive smashed beyond repair, he saw Crowley, standing next to a table holding half a statuette and wearing a guilty expression. On the (_faux?_) marble floor at his feet were the shattered remains of the rest of the _objet_ _d'art_. "Sorry. That was me. I picked it up to read the bottom—you know, to see if it was a real Rodin or a made-in-a-sweatshop-in-a-third-world-country rip-off and…well. Oops. I tripped over the pillows your brother threw onto the floor." He snapped his fingers and the statuette re-appeared, intact and whole. He put it back on the end table, thought the better of it and picked it up. "Incidentally, it's real." He wiggled his eyebrows and the statuette disappeared, only to reappear only a moment later. "There. _That's_ the sweatshop-ripoff. Can't tell, huh?" He grinned.

"You're evil." Sam said, disgusted.

"Of course I am, luv, that's the bloody point!" Crowley shook his head. "Anyway, it's not my fault they tout the 'real antiques' in their brochures. What do they expect? That people are going to _not_ steal the bleeding bric-a-brack? 'Ooh, look, it's a real piece of art worth oodles, let's just look at it and leave it there like assholes'. That's just sheer idiocy." He adjusted the statue on the table, then patted it fondly. "As your Bobby would say, 'idjits'."

Sam sighed. He was too tired to argue with Crowley and besides, the King of Hell was right. Most people would follow their base instincts. "Whatever. Where's Dean?"

"Oh, he's with Feathers. In the bathtub."

"Dean and Cas are in the tub together?" Sam frowned. _That's disconcerting._

"You should see the thing. You could float the Titanic on it." The demon king waved his hand and produced a glass of something amber-colored on the rocks. He turned to Sam. "I'm starving. Any idea what you'd like for dinner?"

Sam shook his head. "I dunno. Dean likes chicken nuggets and fries." He just wanted to get the boy ready for bed and then hit the hay himself.

"I bring you to the food capital of the world and you ask for poncing nuggets? Honestly. It's like you were raised in a cave."

"Right. We were. Just keep stealing the artwork, Crowley." Sam shook his head and went in search of Dean and Cas. It wasn't hard to find them; all he had to do was follow the sound of splashing water.

This was a bit off routine. He hoped it wouldn't mess Dean up too much to have his bath first.

"Ass! Wanck! Wanck!" Dean shouted as Sam entered the bathroom and stared at the walk-in tub-slash-pool-slash…duck pond. Mostly because there were ducks—real ones—swimming in the large tub with the little boy and the medium-sized angel. "Um, Cas? Why are there ducks in the tub?"

"Because Dean always has his ducky when he's in the tubby. But we didn't bring the ducky with us, and then, I thought he might enjoy these, instead of the plastic one. That one usually ends up floating on its side anyway. These stay upright."

_These also have feathers. And heartbeats. And...crap._ "Umm…Cas. It's really not sanitary for Dean to bathe in water filled with duck poop."

Cas smiled. "Don't worry, Sam. There isn't any. The water is clean and sanitary. I made sure. The ducks are poop-free."

"How did you…oh, never mind." Sam sat on a nearby chair. He just hoped the poop-free ducks didn't suddenly and unexpectedly explode. Did it matter? After the day they'd had? Could anything really surprise him anymore?

"Ass make a boat. Wook." Dean pointed to the middle of the tub, where what appeared to be an aircraft carrier sailed; as they watched, two small planes took off and swooped overhead. From somewhere behind Dean, a battleship flying the Japanese flag appeared and began sailing for the aircraft carrier.

There was a small boom and more planes took off.

Dean cheered. The de-pooped ducks quacked and flapped their wings; Sam wondered if they would suddenly revisit the possibility of being able to poop when the battle started in earnest.

A plane buzzed his head; he could see a tiny pilot inside, glaring at him intently. Okay. _That _was a bit surprising.

"Um…Cas? Why are there fighter planes in the bathroom?"

"We're re-enacting the Battle of Midway. On a small scale. It was Crowley's suggestion."

Somehow, not surprising at all.

"Um. How about something more tranquil?" And less dangerous. Or violent. Or as apt to rev Dean up so he never went to sleep. "How about …17th century explorers?"

"Ooh. Very good suggestion, Sam." Cas waved his hand; instantly, the battle ceased and was replaced by two tall-mast ships sailing in opposite directions. BooBoo Kitty hung half in-half out of the crow's nest of the tallest ship.

Cas giggled as the ships sailed past. "They think the tub is flat. They're looking for the shortest passage to India. They're not gonna find it!"

True enough. No comment. Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean splashed. "Dam 'wim too? Wike duck. Wnack, wnack."

"Yes, Sam. Come on in. The water is warm."

Sam hesitated. But then, how often did he get to take a bath in such a tub? He stripped down to his shorts and stepped into the water.

_Perfect._ He settled in the corner closest to Dean; his brother waded over and jumped on him with a huge splash.

"Yay! Dam! I'se slippery!"

And naked. _Erg._ He caught the little boy up into his arms, holding him far enough away that he wouldn't disrespect his brother's personal space. "You _are_ slippery! Like a seal."

"I'se a seal!" Dean giggled and squirted—in a fleshy, not so liquid way, out of his grasp. Sam paused. Something was different…

"Hey. When did he start using the personal pronoun? Hey—good job, Dean!"

"Yay! I spwash a duck!" Dean headed for the creature floating near one of the boats.

Crowley came into the room. "Oh, boys? The Olympic swim team called. They've reserved the tub for practice at seven."

"Well…Dean had it first," Cas said, looking smite-y. "They can have it when he's done and not a minute sooner."

"Right, Cassie. I'll let them know." The demon rolled his eyes at Sam and muttered, "Dumb as a fucking stump." But then he said, "What this tub needs is bubbles," and snapped his fingers; the tub was suddenly filled with pink foam.

The ducks—and Cas—poked their heads up over it, their eyes wide and startled. Somewhere in the foam, a tiny voice yelled, "Ahoy!"

"Now _that's_ a bath!" The King of Hell blipped out and reappeared next to Sam. He grinned at the hunter. "Hullo, luv."

"Please tell me you're wearing clothes."

"Okay." He raised his brows. "I'm wearing clothes. Maybe."

"I'm moving down. Stay there." Sam slid around the edge of the tub to the opposite side.

"You don't know what you're missing, Sammy!" Crowley called.

"I don't _want_ to know what I'm missing." _Seriously. Yuck._ Sam shook his head. "Thanks."

"One of the ducks flapped its wings; a wall of foam flew into Crowley's face. He sputtered and blinked at the creature. "Fucking hell. What the…ooh! _Duck a l'orange_! Brilliant, Cassie!" He snapped his fingers and disappeared.

"Wheah da ducks go?" Dean said.

Sam sighed. "Right. Well, I think that's enough tub time. It's time to get ready for bed, Dean. Cas, do you mind cleaning up in here?"

"Sure, Sam." The angel frowned. "Where _did_ the ducks go?"

0-0-0-0-0

"Mmm. Fwies." Dean sat on the couch in his fuzzy jammies beside the King of Hell, munching on the fries he held in one hand and waving the remote control with his other hand. He flipped through the channel and stopped when he landed on something that looked and sounded like a French version of Bay Watch. "Ooh. Wadies."

"He's a pervy little git, isn't he?" Crowley dropped the remains of a wing on his plate and smiled fondly at Dean.

There was a knock at the door; Sam turned to see Cas moving to open it. There was a brief murmuring and then a maid entered, carrying towels. The angel following her closely, looking alert for danger.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Feathers. Stand down. She just wants to turn the linens," Crowley said and rolled his eyes.

Cas paused and looked at Crowley, his expression puzzled. "Turn them to what?"

"Not turn them, turn them, you senseless twat. Turn them _down_."

"Why? Have they made a request?"

The demon dropped his head against the back of the couch and stared up at the ceiling. "I hate him."

"No, Cas. Look. See? She folds back the blankets." Sam gestured to the room he'd chosen as his and Dean's; inside, the woman was adjusting their covers, and plumping pillows. From her apron pocket, she produced several chocolates and lay them on the nightstand.

"Why does she do that?"

"Because…" Sam trailed off. "I don't know. Why does she do that?"

"I hate you, too." Crowley moaned. He shook his head. "Seriously, Sam. Who cares? It's a nice chocky and a comfy bed. Who gives a flying duck's fat ass—"

"Duck! Ass!" Dean waved the remote and started flicking through the channels again.

"—why she does it. Just enjoy it. You're so fucking analytical about _everything_." Crowley sighed and reached into his pocket. He produced his cell phone. "Here. Do me a favor. Call your tart and stop worrying about everything so much. I can't even relax. Do you have any idea how much anxiety you project?" He tossed Sam the phone.

Sam frowned. "I can't call Annie. I need an international plan."

"See what I mean? _Blehblehbleh whine_. It's an inter-dimensional plan; you can call anywhere. Heaven, Hell, Sioux Falls. Probably Mars, too, if you wanted to." He sighed. "There, Dean. Stop there. It's BBC's Antique Roadshow. That's fun." He snapped his fingers and a bottle of Scotch appeared on the end table beside him, along with a rocks glass and a bucket of ice. "Let's watch people who have sold their souls to make money on their yard sale crap."

"Woadshow?" Dean climbed up to sit next to the demon. "Cwap." He sucked on his fistful of fries.

The maid left Sam's room, Cas following closely behind, and watching her intently in case she suddenly flicked Dean with a towel or something. Sam shrugged. Maybe he _was_ acting a little whiney. And he _did_ want to call Annie. He did a quick calculation. In Sioux Falls, it was around midnight. She probably would just be getting ready for bed and Amelia was asleep, so it was the perfect time to call her.

He turned on the phone and frowned. "Um… Crowley?"

"What is it now, you walking monolith?" The demon scowled. "You do know how to use a phone, don't you? The numbers are the same across the board. Latin, Eonochean, etc. No matter what language the menu has, it's pretty much the same set up on the key pad."

"It's just…I think it's your wallpaper." Sam winced. "It's nauseating. I mean, my eyes are watering."

"Oh. That. Well, yes. I can see how it would be a bit unsettling." He popped off the couch to stand beside Sam and lifted the phone out of the hunter's hand. "It's a selfie of me and Snooki. Lovely little bitch; can't wait until she's down under with me. Here, what's your number?"

"Eugh." Sam shuddered and gave him Annie's number.

"Here you go, luv." Crowley handed him the phone and blipped back to sit next to Dean again.

Sam went into his room and lay on the bed.

Annie picked up after several rings. "Hello?" she asked, sounding cautious.

"Annie! Hi! It's me!"

"Me, who?"

"Sam…" Had she forgotten him already?

"Oh! Sam! I didn't recognize the number. It's…666 Got Hell. Whose phone are you using?"

"Crowley's."

"Crowley's? Oh Sam. You're not with him, are you?"

"Well…yes." He explained how he ended up on a road trip with Dean, his brother's angel and the King of Hell.

Annie was silent for a moment. "And…where are you now?"

"Um. Funny thing. We're in Paris."

"You mean Paris, Wisconsin. Right?"

"Um, no actually. It's the one in France."

There was silence; he wondered if they'd gotten disconnected. "Annie?"

"Where in France, exactly?"

"Um…I think I'm at the Four Seasons George V. That's what Crowley says, anyway."

"Does Bobby know about this? What does he say?"

"Welllll…he knows we're with Crowley, he just doesn't know…look, we didn't exactly plan to end up in Paris, it just sort of happened."

"Ordinarily, I'd argue with you about that, but having spent the last few weeks with you and Cas, I can honestly say 'I get it'. I don't particularly like it, but…well. Where's Dean?"

"He's fine." Sam kicked off his shoes; he wasn't about to tell Annie that his brother was watching Antiques Roadshow with the King of Hell. "How's Melia?"

"She's okay. She misses Dean. And...I miss you."

"I miss you too." He sighed as an unexpected wave of longing washed over him. "I wish you were here with me. You'd like it. You should see my room. And the whole suite. And the tub…" he told her all about their evening and most of their day.

"I heard about the McDonalds. The news is calling it some kind of gas leak."

"Some kind." He grinned, and he could hear her giggling on the other end of the line. She understood, which was crazy. He never imagined that any civilian would "get" his life, but Annie did. She was special. He missed her. "You know…being with you is just...I never had...well sort of, when I was in college, but it wasn't like what it is you." He tried to put into words the feelings rolling around inside him. There was something about the small woman that made him feel happy. And talking to her—in person or even on the phone—was like coming home after a hard day. Or at least what he thought it would be like.

He'd never had a real home. But with Annie… "I wish you were here."

"I wish I was there, too."

He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he didn't want to do that over the phone. And too—what was the point? "I don't want this to end." He sighed.

"France? Your car trip?"

"No! Those can end now and I'd be kicking handstands. No, I mean…well, us, Annie."

She sighed. "I don't want it to end either, Sam. But we have to be realistic."

Like nails, those words. Hammering through his soul.

Maybe that's what he liked about Annie the most; she faced reality head-on and wasn't squeamish about it. But still…

"Why? Why does realistic mean ending our relationship?"

"Because! You'll never be home, and every time you leave, I'll be worrying that I'll never see you alive again. Or worse, that you'll come back changed. Into a werewolf or a vampire or a zombie—"

"If I was a zombie, I probably wouldn't make it back. You know. They're not like homing pigeons."

She huffed a laugh. "You know what I mean. What you do, Sam. It's freaking dangerous."

"So? Firefighters and cops and correctional officers and soldiers—they have dangerous jobs and they still manage to have…" _Wives._ Was that what he meant? No. Of course not. "Families."

"You have a family, Sam." Annie's voice was gentle. "Dean."

Well, yeah. "But I can't have what _we_ have, with Dean."

"You mean, sex?"

Sam felt himself flush. "Well, yeah, there's that, too."

"Thank you for not making boinking your primary objective, Winchester." She laughed again.

It made his heart twist. "See? That's what I mean. That. You're just—your laugh, Annie. I love the way you laugh at things that would make other girls—um, women—get all pissy."

"Hey, now. Don't rank on my gender just because some of us are bitches."

"Okay." He sighed. "So...does this mean that once Dean's an adult and we're hunting again, it's over between us?"

"I...well...no. I mean...not yet." She sighed. "This is hard."

"So you still want to be with me?"

"Yes. Oh Sam...I'll always_ want_ to be with you. It's just..."

"Just that you can't." He always had to give up the normal for the paranormal. It wasn't fair.

"Yes. No. I don't know."

"I don't either. But...can I just...can we just..." _I need you._ "Today was a really long day."

"I can imagine. It sounds almost as bad as the car trip I took with my parents and my brothers, once."

"You have brothers?" Sam sat up.

"Four of them."

Four brothers in a car? "Holy shit."

"Something like that."

"Did your father threaten to leave anyone on the side of the road?" _This_ is what he really liked about Annie. She was a person, with a history, and it wasn't about monsters. "What was your dad like?"

"He's…well, he's a cop. So he was pretty tough on us."

"Try having a dad who was a Marine."

"Oh, yeah, our dad was one of those, too."

"Yours, too?" Oh my gosh. He couldn't believe they'd never discussed this before. Probably because they'd either been distracted by small people or ghosts or angels. Or sex.

"Yep. Everything had to run by the book in our house or there would be hell to pay. Of course, you have a house full of kids and you need to have structure. Or something."

Kind of like life with Dean. On schedule. "I _channeled_ my Dad, today." He thought of his brother's little face, and his tear-filled green eyes and his heart cracked. "I felt like an asshole."

"Sam. Welcome to parenting. We all have asshole moments."

"Yeah, but…" The small crumpled face, the way Dean clutched Cas and wouldn't let go. "I really scared him. I lost control."

"If it makes you feel any better, my dad left my brother Paul at a rest stop and had to go back for him. Dad says it was an accident, but come on. The man never missed a trick. He knew Paul wasn't in the car."

_What?_ That didn't make Sam feel better about scaring Dean, but it did make him feel better about his own dad. "Didn't you and your brothers tell him Paul wasn't there?"

"Hell, no. I mean, if your Dad had accidentally left Dean behind somewhere, would you have said anything?"

"Probably." He would never leave Dean. Not even when his brother was older and annoying as hell. Or younger and just as annoying.

"Well, we didn't. We just pretended to be asleep. Which should have been a tip off. _None _of us slept in the backseat; you had to be awake to watch your back or else you'd wake up with gum in your hair or your hand superglued to your face or something."

"Yeah, but why didn't you tell him?" Not watching your brother's back was incomprehensible. Sam couldn't imagine doing such a thing.

"Are you kidding? Who do you think had the superglue? Personally, I think Dad did it to teach Paul a lesson."

"Wow. That's harsh." Dad never would intentionally leave one of them behind; he knew how dangerous it was for either of them to be alone. Of course, his dad might have left _both_ of them alone—but they would have been locked and loaded and ready for any emergency. He wouldn't have just driven off without looking to see if they were there. Or even, to teach them a lesson.

They got enough lessons hunting monsters.

"For Paul. For the rest of us…it was the best part of the whole trip."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Paul sounds like Crowley."

"Probably." She laughed. "Now, he's a cop with kids of his own that drive him absolutely insane. And we all love it."

"Your dad must be proud of him, then."

Sam felt a stab of regret. His dad wouldn't ever say that about him; he never really knew the adult-Sam, and no matter what, he never would. Then again, Sam was glad of that. "My dad...he was...we didn't get along. He was tough. No, he was a Marine. On a mission. He was...he would hate me."

"No he wouldn't, Sam—"

"He would. The things I've done. The man I am..." Sam thought of what Crowley had said earlier in the day, and it all fell into place with evil little clicks. "Dean."

"What about Dean? He loves you! I've seen him with you—you're his hero. You're his...daddy. She paused. "You're great with him. And with Amelia..."

"Yes but...when Dean turns back..." Sam paused. "I'll just be his little brother. The one who denied everything, who ran away, who drank demon blood and slept with a demon and...I'm no good, Annie. I'm bad all the way through. I'm not the hero you think I am. In fact...you're right. You shouldn't be with me. You're too good, too pure, to be with a man like me. I'm nothing—"

"Sam Winchester, you stop right now. Stop."

"But it's true—"

"It's not. You're a good man, Winchester. Don't let yourself believe otherwise."

"But—"

"I don't want to hear you say anything else." Annie paused, and Sam wondered what she was doing on the other side of the phone. On the other side of the Atlantic. "Look. We all make choices. Some of our choices are really bad. Like, I chose to have sex with Greg. Bad choice."

"But you got Amelia out of it."

"True. And she's the best thing that ever happened to me. But that doesn't mean I should have made the decision to sleep with her father, and now there's a consequence. There are always consequences, Sam."

"You got something good out of your choice."

"Good or bad. That doesn't matter. What does matter is that you realize you are going to have other choices to make, and learn from that. So you've made bad decisions in the past. Sam, make good decisions in the future. Make good decisions _now_."

Sam thought about what she said. "Can I tell you something, Annie?"

"I don't know. Can you?" She grinned; he could hear it in her voice.

"Yes. Getting to know you was one of the best decisions I ever made."

"Telling me _that_ when you're not standing in front of me was one of the worst decisions you ever made, dude, 'cause if you'd waited to tell me when you were here, you would have gotten SO laid..."

Crap. "I'm such a douche."

"The douchy-est. Hey, isn't _douche_ French for 'shower'?" She laughed, and Sam shivered. He _did_ love her, he realized. But he'd make a good decision—for once—and tell her _that_ in person.

0-0-0-0-0

Sam didn't walk as much as float back out into the common room to see Crowley standing near a baby grand piano, picking out Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star with two fingers. "Was that there before?"

"This? No. I got it for Dean to play with." The King of Hell closed the lid. "It was Liberace's."

"Eww." Sam frowned.

The demon shrugged. "How's the girlfriend? She talk some sense into you, you behemoth?"

"Maybe." Sam handed him his phone. "Thanks."

Crowley held the phone gingerly between his index finger and thumb. "It's all sticky. What's on here?" He tilted an eyebrow at Sam. "You and she didn't have phone sex, did you?"

"Crowley!" Sam shook his head. "It's chocolate. I ate the piece on the nightstand."

"Figures." The King of Hell shook his head. "You really don't have a clue, do you? Poor Sam." He sighed and tucked the phone into his pocket.

"Shut up, Crowley." Sam looked around the room, and then under the piano. There was a clear absence of little boy. "Um...where's Dean?"

Crowley's eyes rounded. "He's not with you?"

"You weren't watching him?"

"I was! And then he...oh! I got distracted by The Roadshow and took my eyes off him for a second, and—"

"What?" Sam's heart fell to his feet. "Is he with Cas?"

"I don't know." The demon disappeared, then reappeared. "No! He's not."

"What the hell, Crowley?"

Cas appeared immediately behind Sam. "Where's Dean? He's not with you?"

"Does he look like he's with me? I thought he was with Crowley."

Sam and Cas turned to look at the demon king who raised his hands in the air. "I thought he was with one of you yobs. How was I supposed to know the kid could disappear?"

"Holy shit." Sam turned and raced through the other bedrooms, calling his brother's name. "Dean! Deeeean!"

Cas flickered and flew around behind him, popping in and out of closets and under beds and bureaus, and even Crowley blipped from place to place looking places neither of them had looked. It only took moments for them to check the entire suite, and only seconds for the truth to become clear: Dean was gone and at large. In Paris.

* * *

_Dunh dunh duhn duhn! I don't know if I'm more scared for Dean or for the people of France. _Merde!_ And on that cheerful note: Please review, and tell me__—where do YOU think Dean is? (I know, but I'm not telling. You'll just have to wait and see__—hopefully not as long as you had to wait for this chapter. It's all on Season Nine Sam's shoulders...Sam! Stop hurting my Dean, you gigantic meanie. Or I'll send some non-poop-free ducks to fly over your pretty hair!)_


	20. Chapter 20

_Well. The first part of this chapter is what I think everyone envisioned _should_ happen if toddler Dean was loosed in Paris. (The sky is falling. The sky is falling!) But the second part shows you what actually happened. _

_I hope it's not too confusing. It's hard to be a ghost, after all, especially if you're a just a young girl when you become one. I really wanted to write from Dean's POV, but I realized finally__—if you don't know the words, you can't describe things very well when you're in a strange place. Eventually, however... _

Mercy buckets_ to Babelfish for supplementing my rudimentary high school French with correctly spelled and conjugated sentences._

* * *

TWENTY

The room exploded; Sam was pretty sure the three of them ran in circles with their hands in the air, crashing into one another in panic. Although, to be honest, he didn't realized this until later when the horrific moment they'd realized Dean was lost—_in Paris!_—was a matter of recollection instead of fact, and he'd noticed a bruise on his elbow and a similar, sort of elbow-shaped bruise on Crowley's cheek, right under his eye.

Later, he actually recalled running elbow-first into Crowley's face; it had happened at the same time he'd found himself suddenly gagging on a cloud of fluffy pinfeathers. Though they could have been duck remnants, they were also dark blue and black—just like Cas' wings.

At the time, though, only one thing mattered—Dean was missing.

"Where could he be? Where is he? Oh my GOD!" Crowley shrieked, jumping up and down.

"He's gone, Sam. He's gone. Dean is gone. He is not here, he is not there, I cannot find him anywhere—"

"Oh my God. Oh. My. Goooood!" The demon _did_ run in circles, around him—Sam remembered Crowley stomping on his toe just before he also stepped on the back of Sam's heel because Sam then had to figure out if he wanted to put his shoe on or take it off, since it was suddenly half-off anyway. In the end (he thought), he might have just thrown his own hands up in the air and joined the panic, wearing only one shoe and covered with molted pinfeathers.

"What am I gonna do? I had one thing to take care of. One thing, and I fucked it up. I can't even watch a toddler. Not even Dean as a toddler. _Especially_ Dean as a toddler. _No one_ can watch Dean as a toddler—"

"He is not up, he is not down, he isn't even all around. He is not in, he is not out—"

"Holy Mother of God—"

"He's hell on wheels when he's an adult—I mean, he's died about a million times—"

"He is not still, he's not about, I'll just stand here and shout, shout, SHOUT!"

"Notre Dame, our mother, PRAY FOR US!"

"We're so FUCKED!"

At their collective shriek, one of the floor-to-ceiling windows shattered into what would have been an interesting pattern had any of them had actually been paying attention (Sam mused later).

At that moment, however, they stopped shrieking, praying and Seuss-ing and looked at one another in horror.

Feathers see-sawed gently through the air around them and settled on their shoulders and around their feet. A piece of window fell in and landed on the floor with a musical tinkle.

"I'm not paying for that," Crowley said, after a moment.

"Where's my other shoe?" Sam looked down at his socked foot and wiggled his toes.

"Dean is gone." Cas slumped onto the couch. "He's gone, and we'll never find him again." The angel wailed. "He is not down, he is not up…"

"Oh for Chrissakes you baby, get off the bleeding sofa and extend your celestial powers to find the little git. And you, Sam. Call the front desk and tell them…aw, bollocks. You don't speak French, do you?" Crowley looked at him. Sam shook his head; the demon snapped his fingers and Sam felt his tongue twist slightly. "There. _Now_ you speak French. Call the front desk and tell them that your brother is loose _dans l'hotel_ and that all guests should remain calm, immediately proceed to their rooms, and lock their doors until the all's clear is sounded."

"And what the fuck are you going to do?" Sam asked (although it came out sounding like, "_et qu'allez-vous faire?_" and was far more polite than he intended, which was probably a side effect of being turned into a French speaker by the King of Hell).

"I'm going to go look for mini-Dean before he does something evil. Come on Feathers, gird your loins or whatever it is you fellows do. We've got a Weechester to save. Or prevent. I'm not sure."

"I will protect you, Dean, wherever you are!" Cas wailed into the couch cushion.

"When did you get to be such a poof? You're an Angel of the bleeding Lord! Let's go already." Crowley grabbed his arm. "Honestly, you're covered in feathers. Look at this. It's like an explosion in a pillow factory. What, did you start a panic-molt?"

With that, the King of Hell and the Angel of the Lord disappeared in search of Dean.

0-0-0-0-0

There was a little boy in the hallway. He was following the lady with the clean towels and chocolate.

Emilie liked it when children came to play. Some of them couldn't see her, but some could. And she could tell—this one could. Because when she came close, he stopped following the lady, stopped sucking the chocolate squished in his fist, and looked right at her.

"Bonjour!" She swooped down to stand in front of him. Or how she would have stood, if she could. She couldn't stand anymore; her legs didn't work properly. They hadn't worked since the day she lost her sister at the parade, when the German tanks rumbled through the streets. She remembered the date because it was Françoise's fourth birthday. June 26, 1940.

Her little sister had gotten safely to the other side of the street, and that's all that mattered. Emilie had seen her turning to look for her, with her new birthday doll clutched in her arms. But then there was some noise and great pain in her legs—that's how she knew they were broken—and then the sun went out and it was dark. Probably because of the Germans, they had so many loud machines in the streets and everywhere—and now Emilie couldn't find her sister. It made her sad.

Having other children around made it better, though. "Have you seen Françoise?" she asked the little boy, even though she knew he was probably too young to answer.

"Dee wike choc'wate," he answered, and she knew she was right. He couldn't talk. Not enough to be very interesting. That didn't matter, though. He could see her and hear her, which was more than most people could do.

"I like chocolate, too." She sat down on the floor in front of him. "Your name is Dee? That's a funny name."

"Yah." He paused, tilted his head, and offered her his sticky fist. "Oo want d'choc'late?"

"No, thank you." She wished she could have some—she missed it—but she'd learned that she couldn't taste anything, anymore. She didn't know what breaking her legs had to do with not being able to taste anything though. Or eat. Not that she was hungry. She'd gotten used to not eating. It probably had something to do with Hitler. He ruined everything, Papa said.

"I'm looking for my sister." She sat on the floor in front of him. "And Maman and Papa. They're missing, too." She frowned and blinked back tears. She was so lonely.

He tilted his head. "Oo is sad? Oo fwy?"

She nodded. "I am. I do cry. I cry all the time."

"Tiss it bettah?" He leaned close but…as with all things—all people—he missed her and fell forward to sprawl on the floor. "Ooh! Baaaaad wady."

"I'm not a bad lady. I'm a girl. And a very nice one at that. It's not my fault you fell down, after all." Emilie tried to help the boy up. "Here, that's better. Want to see where I live?"

"'Kay." He stood.

"You're wearing your pajamas? Were you going to go to bed?"

The little boy pouted. "No bed. Wookin' more choc'late."

"I know. Chocolate is lovely," Emilie agreed, and started to lead the little boy down the hall.

"Ooh!" He stopped at the cart the lady pushed up and down the hall every day. The one with the towels and things she cleaned with. Probably for the Germans.

Although, it was odd. The soldiers had gone, and now there were people who spoke all kinds of languages besides German. More languages than she'd ever known existed. She liked to follow them and listen to them speak, and try to figure out what they were saying. Most of the time, if she concentrated very hard, she could understand. Which was strange, because she knew she only spoke French.

Papa said she was a very smart girl, the smartest, and she was sure that's why she could understand.

She watched the little boy climb up on the cart to reach the box of chocolates on the very tiptop shelf, the one that nearly reached the ceiling. "Why, you're like a little monkey!" Emilie said.

He peeked over the edge. "Dee not a monkey. Dee...Dee a hunter."

"A hunter?" Emilie laughed. "Who told you that?"

"Ass. And Wowwy." He disappeared again; she could hear him rustling around on the top of the cart.

Emilie pushed herself up on tiptoe to see what he was doing. "Are those people? What funny names! What do you hunt? Lions?"

The boy scrunched his face and shook his head.

"Bears?"

"No. Choc'late." He looked down to the floor and at the box of chocolates; then he shrugged, dropped the box and climbed down, one, two, three. He picked up the box and tucked it under his arm. "Weady," he told her.

"My, you're very clever." Emilie observed. "You could be anything you wanted to be. You're that smart."

The little boy nodded. "Yah."

She started down the hall, the little boy following. When she got to the room where she stayed, she told him, "Wait here. I have to let you in. But first, I need to make sure there's no one in there. When big people go in my room, I hide. Because they could be soldiers."

"'Tay." The little boy sat on the floor and began eating the chocolates from the box, tossing the wrappers over his shoulder.

Emilie slipped into the room. It was funny how she could do that, now. She didn't even need to open doors or anything. She could just move around from place to place, sometimes by just thinking about it. She didn't know if that was because of Hitler or because she was a very smart girl. It just was.

No one was in her room. She checked to be sure that Françoise's doll was on the shelf where it had been sitting earlier in the day; just in case her sister had come to find it. But she hadn't, and the doll was still there. It was always there. Sometimes it moved but she'd watched and discovered it only happened when the lady came in to clean. Never because of Françoise.

She turned and thought about opening the door for the boy who called himself Dee. As usual, it clicked and swung open. It was so funny. People came to fix the door all the time but there was nothing to fix. It was just Emilie. They never saw her. They never did. No one saw her but other children, like her new friend.

"Come on in!"

He picked himself and the box up off the floor, but left the wrappers behind.

Emilie looked down at them. "You ate a lot. You're going to get a tummy ache if you eat many more." She sighed and closed the door after he entered. "I used to love to eat chocolates. But then the Germans came and there were no chocolates anymore. There wasn't much of anything anymore. Except more soldiers. And they took everything."

Dee looked around. Emilie was pleased to see he noticed Françoise's doll right away, sitting up on the shelf where the lady had put it. He pointed to it. "Pwetty."

"That's Françoise's doll. She got it for her birthday. Maman had purchased it before the Occupation. I picked it out for her—see? Françoise has blue eyes and dark hair just like it. Maman hid it in her closet and we gave it to her in the morning when we got up." Emilie sat down on a chair. "I found it in the street after the motorcade passed, and I tried…" Emilie frowned. It was hard to remember, exactly. Sometimes things got confusing. Probably because she'd bumped her head or something when she was running across the street to keep Françoise from getting hit.

"I stayed with the doll in case my sister and Maman came back to find it. I couldn't pick it up. I don't know why. Probably because of Hitler." She sighed. "Then some man picked it up and put it in a shop! And then a lady brought it here. But Françoise will come get it. Probably Papa will bring her. It's not safe on the street because of all the soldiers and trucks and machines."

Dee nodded seriously. He climbed on the couch beside her and sighed.

"You have a tummy ache, don't you? I told you so."

"Wheah is Dam?" He asked her.

"I don't…_what_ is Dam?"

"Dammy." Dee scrunched up his face in thought.

Emilie tried to help. "Is he your cat?"

"No." Dee giggled. "Dat BooBoo."

"Is it Ass?"

"Ass fwies." He moved his hand along in front of him; she was pretty sure he was showing her something flying, which was silly because no one could fly. Unless they were in a plane.

"Is he a pilot?"

Dee frowned. "In da pwane? Ass make pwane fwy in the baff."

"In the bath? You're a funny boy, Dee." Emilie reached out and mussed the little boy's hair. He was so cute. He reminded her of her sister. "Is he…well, he's not your Papa because then you'd call him Papa." She thought a moment. "Oh! I know. He's your brother?"

Dee tilted his head, then nodded. "Yah."

Emilie sighed. "I don't know where he is. I wish I could find my sister—"

There was a sound, and then the door opened. Emilie tensed in case a soldier entered the room. But she didn't want to leave her little friend; she needed to keep him safe. He was too small to be alone. It was dangerous.

A man came into the room. And then the oddest thing happened. He looked right at her. "Hullo. What's this?"

Emilie screamed.

Because he wasn't a man, he was a thing, with glowing red eyes and fangs, and giant horns. And the man—the monster—could see her. No one could see her. Only children. Never grown-ups. She tried to get away from him because he was a monster. But she was frozen in place. She couldn't move. Why couldn't she move? "No! No, please. Please, go away," she pleaded.

"I'm not here for you, girl. I'm here for that little bugger. Unfortunately, because I could use all the souls I can get. But you're as clean as the driven damn snow, more's the pity. You're just lost, is all," the monster said. He looked at her with those glowing eyes; they had an oblong pupil, like a goat's.

"No! No, get away, get away, get away—"

"Wowwy!" _This_ was Wowwy? Dee's friend? This _thing_ was the little boy's friend? What kind of people were they?

The monster threw his head back and bellowed, "Castiel! Get your feathery ass in here. I found Dean—and a little mess for you to clean up, too." He—_it_—moved to look down at the little boy; although Emilie stood trembling in terror, it ignored her to talk to her friend. "Look at you, you little shit. You got into the maid's chocs, didn't you?" He gave a rough growl, though Emilie thought he might be laughing. It was hard to tell because mostly it was just a horrible sound. "You're a Hunter, through and through."

She began to cry. It was worse than the Germans, and Hitler. If only Papa were here. He'd make things better!

"Da girl fwies. Don't fwy. Dee take care of 'oo." The little boy got to his feet and tried to put his arms around her. He failed, which only made Emilie more sad. But he didn't give up. He held up a squished chocolate. "Oo have dis?"

Emilie shook her head and tried not to look at the monster. "I can't. I'm too scared."

"Wowwy 'tare you?" Dee crunched up his face in a frown. "Dee make Wowwy go 'way." He turned and shook his fist. "Go 'way, Wowwy!"

The monster sighed. "You're _saving_ ghosts now? We can't get you back to size soon enough. Honestly. This is a cluster-fuck and a half." The monster-man lifted a clawed hand and called over his shoulder again. "Cassie! Where are you? I'm not picking him up—he's covered with chocolate! I'll get sticky!"

"Here I am." Another man—this one in a beige raincoat—appeared.

Emilie stared. Wings! He had wings! And he glowed, with a golden light.

"Ass! Hu-waaaaay!" Dee jumped down off the couch and ran to the man with wings; he hugged him around the knees.

"This is Ass? Your friend? He really can fly?" Emilie whispered. Things were very strange, here. Dee was very strange. And why did the monster mention a ghost? Was it because Dee was one? But that wasn't possible because he was a little boy. Still…"Dee? Are you a…a ghost?"

Dee giggled. "No. I no a ghost!"

The man with the wings stared at her with eyes as blue as the sky after a rain, and then he said, "Your name is Emilie," in a deep, almost gravelly voice.

Emilie couldn't believe it. Not only did he see her, he _knew_ her! "You know my name? Did—did Papa send you?"

He smiled, then. "You might say that. I am an Angel of the Lord. And of _course_ I know your name. I know everyone's name."

"Don't listen to him. We're lucky he knows his own name," the monster muttered.

Emilie shuddered and tried to block the hideous beast from her sight. But then the creature loomed over the little boy, bending to pick him up even though he'd said he wouldn't. He reminded Emilie of the soldiers she'd seen, taking and hurting and looting and shooting innocent people. Innocent children. Like her. _And Françoise!_

"No! Dee! Leave Dee alone!" She found that she could move again—and she needed to stop the evil-looking monster from hurting the little boy, just like she stopped Françoise from being injured by the German soldiers' truck. "You put him down!" She flew to rescue him.

"Emilie! Stop!" The Angel commanded.

As if she were on a string, or a leash, she stopped moving and froze in place.

The monster snorted. "Neat trick, that. Dean, say goodbye to your little friend."

Dee turned to look at her. He blew a kiss. "Bye bye, fwiend."

"Very nice," the monster said. "Okay let's—oh, no. You little—I said 'don't' touch me—oh, for the love of God! Another good suit, ruined at the hands of Dean Winchester!"

"Wowwy. _Thhhpt_."

"Don't spit your gooey little globules at me, you—no. No! No, don't touch my hair, not in the hair, not in the…great. I'm all sticky now. Thank you so much, Dean." The little boy giggled and he and the monster disappeared, leaving Emilie alone with the angel.

* * *

_I wish I could say that Crowley and Dean are now roaming Paris, but sadly__—for him__—the King of Hell is going to clean both of them up (moaning the destruction of yet another designer suit__—yay, Dean!) and attempt to get the Weechester (heheheh) settled for bed. In the meantime, Cas needs to get this poor child reunited with her family._

_The moral of the story: don't get so attached to worldly things that you forget to look for your ride to the next plane of existence. Because you can't eat chocolate when you're dead. (I don't know about you, but that's my definition of Hell.) _

_Please feel free to leave a review. Or, as Babelfish says: __Laisser un commentaire ou vous n'obtiendrez pas un chocolat!_


	21. Chapter 21

_Author's Note: Well...this was unexpected. I really need to plot this thing out-I have an idea of where I want to go with my chapters as I sit down to write them, but sometimes they take off and twist in their own directions. Not always something I enjoy; I'm more of a plotter than a pantser (though I do enjoy riffing), but this story has been more by the seat of my pants than anything I've written lately._

_Anyhow. Your guess is as good as mine where this one came from. I think Sam's got some stuff to work out. (I did promise angst, didn't I?) I'd also like to apologize for the Star Trek references, which also arrived from the Land of WTF; amazing the things one's brain will dredge up when least expected. _

_Consider yourself warned!_

* * *

**TWENTY-ONE**

Sam raced to the end of the hall. Times like this, he really envied the beings he traveled with their ability to blip around in a blink. Even if it did result in constipation for all, it was fast and—most importantly—it got him to Dean.

By the time he reached the room with the open door and their voices, however, only Cas was there. With a little girl. They were holding hands as if they were about to go on a walk together.

Sam pulled up short, grasping the edges of the doorframe to stop his momentum; he hung there as a window-no, more like another door, opened in the center of the room right before the pair. Beyond it—inside it-he could see people moving about. It looked like some bad original Star Trek footage; he half-expected an overdosing Bones McCoy to appear out of nowhere, leap through it, and screw up time forever. _Dammit, Jim._

"You want me to go through there?" The little girl asked. She scrunched up her nose at the angel. "You're not serious."

_Wait a minute…_Cas wanted the kid to go through the portal of time to God only knows where? _What the hell, Cas?_

Sam tried to step forward, to stop whatever was going on, but a glance from the angel had him frozen in place like a chicken nugget about to be nugged. _Damn you, Cas!_

"Oh, I am. Quite serious." Cas nodded. "Françoise is just through that door."

She tilted her head. "How do I know I can trust you?"

The angel shrugged. "You don't. But…" He squatted down. It was a very human gesture, and Sam wondered if he'd learned the "get down to their eyelevel" trick from dealing with little Dean for the past five weeks. "You know I'm an angel, and angels can be trusted."

Until they screw you over, Sam thought, struggling against his invisible bonds._ Don't listen to him! He's going to beam you up into a different dimension! Crap. I need to stop watching Star Trek reruns before bed._

She appeared to think about this, chewing on her lip. Then she turned; when she saw Sam, her eyes widened.

She reminded him of the little girl he'd once met, the one with the suicidal teddy bear; sweet, innocent, yet somewhat worldly, too. As if she'd seen things no one her age should have witnessed and borne sorrow too big for her tiny shoulders. Almost a grownup in a child's body. But not quite. "He can see me too?" she asked.

Sam realized suddenly that she was speaking in French; he hadn't been de-Gaulled yet, and Crowley's babelfish trick was still translating everything he heard.

Cas nodded and looked at him. "Yes, he can see you and hear you. That's Sam. Sam, this is Emilie."

"Sam?" She frowned, then her face cleared. "Oh! You're Dee's brother!"

_How does she know I called him Dee…oh. Because Dean calls himself that, too._ He'd never noticed that before. "I am."

"You shouldn't let him wander like that," she admonished him. "He's very little. He could get hurt."

"I know." Sam agreed. "He got away when I wasn't paying attention."

"Well, you need to pay attention. Because it's terrible when you lose someone. I've been trying to find my sister for what feels like forever and…" she frowned. "You haven't seen her, have you? She's very young. She'd be looking for her doll." Emilie pointed to the shelf where the doll sat, using the hand that wasn't gripped in Cas' fist.

Sam shook his head. She pulled her hand from Cas' and put a fist on each of her hips in miniature indignation. "You do realize that Dee is with that monster-man right now. Don't you think it's important that you go get him instead of standing here chatting with me?"

"She means Crowley," Cas supplied. "She can see us in our true forms, since she's caught between the veils."

"I got that." Sam nodded.

"I can hear you, too, you know." Emilie stomped her foot. "I don't like it when people talk about me like I'm not here."

"Understandable," Cas agreed, and stood. "It's time for you to go, now."

"Where? Through that door?" She bit her lip again. "What if she comes looking for her doll?"

"I don't think she will," Cas said. "But Sam can keep a lookout for her and tell her he knows where you are if she does."

Good grief. Cas was lying. Or exaggerating the truth. Once Emilie stepped through the portal, she wouldn't be coming back.

"Is she…?" Sam asked. He didn't like lying. Especially not to little girls.

"She is right through that door." Cas gestured with his chin. "See?"

Emilie scrunched up her face. "All I see is an old lady in a white dress."

"That's her."

"No it's not…she looks like…wait a minute." Emilie squinted. "Oh! Now I see her! I see her! That's Francoise! It's my sister! And look—Maman and Papa!"

She dropped Cas' hand and flew through the portal; Sam could see the family reuniting on the other side of the doorway. It looked like crappy seventies television special effects, but it was touching just the same. Especially when Emilie and her sister (who was wearing a white dress) hugged and began jumping up and down with excitement. Except…

"If they turn and wave at me before the portal closes, I'm so not buying this Hallmark moment," Sam muttered.

"Oh, all right." Cas gestured and the portal closed before the family noticed the angel and the man watching them through the veil. "But I always like the wavy parts."

"Melodrama." Sam rolled his shoulders; he could move again. "Where's the doll? I'll salt and burn it, just in case."

"I don't think you'll need to." Cas plucked the doll off the shelf and looked at it. "It's just a doll, now—no memories attached to it."

He tossed it to the hunter. Sam caught it and nodded. Cas was probably right. It didn't feel haunted; he'd handled enough spooked objects in his lifetime to know. "So she was waiting for Françoise to show up?"

The angel nodded. "Sad. Seventy-four years. A lifetime for a human. But I guess that's what older siblings will do for their younger siblings. Whatever it takes."

Sam didn't answer. He just moved to put the doll back onto the shelf. "I have to go get Dean ready for bed."

He turned and walked down the hall, back to their room, feeling as if he'd been set up, somehow.

Had Cas done that?

He wouldn't put it past him; the angel—and the demon—had made their feelings about the subject pretty plain. He needed to change his brother back to an adult, even though—at times—it felt like the worst thing he could do to Dean. And then, it was right back to that thing.

_Destiny._ Who he was. Who Dean was. Even Annie wouldn't let him forget it. Make good decisions, she said. Easy for her to say. She didn't have to deal with Crowley and Cas, or the lingering doubts about what he'd done in the past. Bottom line—no matter what he did with Dean now, his brother would grow up and not remember a thing about this part of his second childhood. And he'd look at Sam with distrust again. It broke Sam's heart. And pissed him off, too. Because he'd had only good intentions at heart when he'd done what he'd done.

He pushed open the door to their suite. "Right. That's it. You come over here right now mister, or you're in big trouble," Sam heard Crowley say.

"No. Thhhpt, Wowwy," Dean said, and then he giggled.

"It's not funny."

"Choc'wate, chock'wate, chocka, chocka, chock-waaaate," Dean sang in his small, off-key voice.

"No. No, I don't—no! Don't rub it on…oh, bollocks. You effin' little piece of excrement..."

Sam peered into the master bedroom—which Crowley had claimed as his own—and was surprised to see the King of Hell caught in a crudely drawn devil's trap.

"What…how did…where did that come from?"

"Where do you think, Sasquatch?" Crowley crossed his arms and wasn't surprised to see chocolate smudged on the demon's cheek. "Your fecking little twat of a brother drew it. With chocolate, no less!"

"_Dean_ did that?" He stared down at it. "That's not possible. He's only eighteen months old."

"So you say. But God only knows what he's capable of. And bottom line is—I'm stuck in here and that little bastard is off again on his own." Crowley frowned. "You didn't happen to notice him out there, did you? Because I'm not sure he's in here anymore."

"He couldn't get out into the common room—he would have had to go past me to—"

"The bathroom is accessible by any of the bedrooms, you giant yob. He probably snuck out that way when you came in here to gawk at me."

"Oh, shit." Sam spun on his heel to find Dean. _Again. _

"Ya' think?" Crowley barked. "Hey. No, wait. Sam! Come back and let me out!"

Sam ignored him to chase after Dean; he caught up to his brother as the toddler was pulling a chair up the doorknob to make another escape. "Dean! No! You need to stay in the room!"

"Dee find Ass," the little boy said, petulantly. "Wan' One Fish Two Fish."

"Dear God," Crowley moaned from his room. "I wan' cut off my own head with a butter knife."

Sam had to agree with the demon. "You know what? Let's get you ready for bed first. And then, when Ass gets here he'll read it to you."

"No bed." Dean struggled to get free. "Bed is for poop!"

Sam carried the boy back into the bathroom and started filling the tub. "Wheah da ducks?"

"No ducks."

"Ass make da ducks."

"Ass is busy right now." _Saving ghosts from their own pasts._

"Ass no busy. I wan' Ass."

"No Ass." Sam grit his teeth and started removing Dean's chocolate-y pajamas.

"No Dam!" Dean hauled off and slapped Sam in the face. His sharp little fingernail jabbed Sam in the eye, the last straw at the end of a very long day.

Sam gripped his little big brother's arms. "You! Don't. Hit!" He glared into Dean's tiny face and he saw nothing but red. He wanted to shake the little boy, to get him to behave, to stop breaking things and running away and for making him feel so goddamn guilty all the time—

"Uh—Sam?" Crowley called from the other room. "How about letting me out? I'll give him a bath and you go for a walk or something."

And then there was a whoosh of sound and the scent of sandalwood. Sam blinked; his vision cleared and he realized Dean was no longer in his grasp. He turned his head to see Cas glaring down at him. "You will not hurt your brother."

"I wasn't—I wouldn't—I—" Sam realized he was babbling under the angel's intense stare. He closed his mouth. "I'm sorry."

"Dean is my charge," Cas said. "I will care for him tonight. _You_ will not." With a whoosh, the angel disappeared, taking Dean along with him.

"Well...that worked out well." Crowley called. "Come over here, you giant child abuser, and let me out."

"I'm not a child abuser," Sam muttered, though he felt—down to the tips of his toes—that he was. He got to his feet and shuffled to Crowley's room to let the demon out.

The trap was surprisingly intricate. Sam scraped a part of it away. "Sorry, Crowley," he mumbled and turned away, wondering where Cas took Dean and if his little big brother was okay. Had he hurt him? He'd dug in his fingers pretty hard when he'd grabbed him; he'd probably made bruises. Sam shuffled to the common room and looked for the bottle of booze Crowley had produced.

"I wouldn't." Crowley stepped out of his bedroom, de-chocolated and dressed in a clean black suit. "The last thing you need, mate, is a drink."

"_You're_ telling me not to give in to my vices right now? Isn't that your job? To push people into the wrong direction?" Sam cast around for something—anything—and finally dropped onto the couch. Despair washed over him and puddled in his stomach where it sat, churning itself into a hard little knot of angst.

"Ordinarily, yes. But you're not people. You're Moose." Crowley sat beside him. "And to be honest, your vices are a bit more vicey than most. Booze is just the tip of your iceburg. I'm lucky you're not gouging a hole in my neck and turning me into a slurpee."

"Shut up, Crowley." Sam flopped back with his head against the back of the couch and his arm over his eyes. He wished he could make his ears stop working. Hell, he wished he could make his _brain_ stop working.

"And that's part of your problem right there. You don't want to hear it, you don't want to think about it; you don't want to work on your problems. You just want them all to poof away like they don't exist. Well, too bad."

Sam peered at the demon from under his arm. "Were you reading my mind?"

"Of course." Crowley settled against the couch cushions. "It's like a fucking funhouse carnival. I love it in there."

"Of course." Sam settled his arm more firmly over his eyes. He was such a fuckup, even the King of Hell was amazed at the fucked-upedness.

"Oh for Christ's sake, you giant mope. Get over it. We _all_ suck. Don't you get that?" Crowley thumped him in the side with his elbow; it poked him like a knife between the ribs.

"Ow!" Sam lifted his arm away and glared at him. "That hurt!"

"Big baby. Here." Crowley snapped his fingers. A trifle-bowl sized ice cream sundae appeared and hovered over Sam's lap. The demon handed him a spoon. "What you need is a self-induced carbohydrate coma."

"If you gave me the carbs, how could it be self-induced?" Sam hesitated a moment before taking the spoon and cradling the giant bowl against his chest. He shouldn't eat the ice cream, he knew, but then again, the whipped cream looked so fluffy and there was a peanut butter cup poking up over one side of the enormous dish. What other candies were lurking beneath? "I am so going to Hell for this."

"Probably not." The demon sighed and reached for the remote. "You could go to Hell for other things, but not eating a peanut butter banana split."

"There are bananas in here?" Sam nudged the cream aside with his spoon. "Oh! Here's one." He paused as guilt of a different sort stabbed him in the heart. "Dean would love this."

"_Dean_ has been cut off," the demon said firmly. "No more chocolate and sugar for him. From now on, it's fruit and veggies for that little heathen."

"He got you good, though." Sam giggled as the sugar swarmed into his bloodstream and began affecting his brain.

"I know. Little git can't even use the toilet and he's crafting demon traps good enough to catch _me_ in. What's up with that?" Crowley paused, and sobered. "It wasn't your fault, what happened. You just got overloaded, today. Because you _are_ a good brother, Sam. You just happen to be human and not superhuman."

"Thanks for pointing that out. I had delusions of superhero-ness."

"You know what I mean, you sod. Your brother is hell on two feet, even as an adult. As a child, even more so—because he's faster and he's got more energy than all three of us put together. And that's saying a lot. Don't beat yourself up too much. All parents pull a nutty sooner or later, and to be honest, I would have laid odds you'd crack long before this."

Sam shrugged. "I wanted to kill him."

"But you didn't. And we were watching you. You would have stopped even before Cas showed up. One look at that little face and you would have realized what you were doing. And beat yourself up, just the same."

"I don't know..."

"Well, I do. It's my job, after all. Making men give in to their passions. You weren't even close."

Sam sighed. He wasn't entirely convinced, but he felt a little better. Of course, that could have been the whipped cream helping, but...maybe not.

"Do you want your cherry?"

"Yes." Sam scooped it up between his finger and thumb and popped it into his mouth.

"Bet you can't tie a knot in the stem with your tongue."

"Bet you're never gonna find out."

"Bollocks."

0-0-0-0-0

On the other side of the globe, where the sun shone brightly, there was a little island where a coral reef formed a natural breaker, calming the roaring sea so that its waves gently lapped the sand. It was the kind of place where a small, naked boy could wade out quite far without worrying about the water climbing past his thighs and—if watched by a particularly attentive guardian angel—could play for hours, tormenting the sea life at his feet. Or at least until his chocolate high faded.

"Wook, Ass! A fish! One fish, two fish, fwee fish, four!"

In his beach chair, with his toes buried in the sand, his trouser pants rolled up to his knees, and his tie loosened, Cas nodded and waved. "Good job, Dean! Now look for one in a little car!"

* * *

_Phew. That was the scariest chapter I've written to date. Kripke was right. Human monsters are the scariest. And we've all got one lurking inside us. _

_Carb up, people. It's our only hope for a peaceful humanity. And review if you can!_


	22. Chapter 22

_Author's Note: Don't ask me how this happened so fast. Miserable Muse. She either works ALL the time or she doesn't want to write at all..._

_Even worse, she creates puns. And stuff._

* * *

**TWENTY-TWO **

Sam woke to an insistent hissing.

"Sss'm? Sss'm? Sssam? Ssss'm? Sss'm?

He opened his eyes to see a dark shape looming over him; in one motion he grabbed the knife from under his pillow and rolled into a fighting crouch on the other side of the bed. Or at least, that had been his intention; he slipped on the dismount and ended up doing a partial split with the blankets tangled around his ankle and with his hair in his face. "Ow."

"Ssm? Ssm?" The figure hissed, and Sam turned on the bedside lamp.

"Cas? HOLY SHIT!"

"Ssm." The angel hissed sadly.

"What's—what the hell happened to your face?" Sam stood up straight, dropping the knife and hurrying around the bed to get closer to the angel; he radiated heat. "Oh my God. You're _purple_!"

"I know." Cas blinked his swollen eyelids.

"What…is that…are you…burned?"

The angel nodded. "I think so. My vessel is very…uncomfortable."

"Come with me. To the bathroom. I—oh." Sam realized the angel had blipped himself there—or at least, he thought he did, because he wasn't in the room anymore. A quick check of the bathroom showed this to be the case.

Cas stood in the center of the room, looking miserable and hunched over.

"What happened? Who did this to you?"

"My Father," Cas said, his lips trembling.

"What? You mean…" Sam leaned back. "Your _Father-father?_ As in…God?"

The angel nodded and sniffled. "Because I unclothed my vessel. And frolicked."

"What?" _Frolicked? Naked? Ewww._ "How…oh. Oooohhh, Cas." Sam realized the burn covered the angel's vessel's neck, too, and went down into the vee of his unbuttoned shirt. "Is it…you're burned all over your body?"

"Yes." Cas whimpered.

"Can I…can we…um." _Well, this is awkward._ Sam winced. "Can we take off your clothes? Not all of them but—oh!" He reared back, as Cas' white button-down shirt winged past his face; the angel's clothes flew to the other side of the bathroom to fall into messy heaps. Sam stared. "Ow. OW! Dude. Oh, duuuuude." He reached for a towel and draped it as gently as possible around the angel's naked waist to hide his nether parts. And then he stepped back to consider Cas's body. "Um. That definitely looks like…sunburn."

"What?" Cas raised his eyes to meet Sam's. "The Son did this to me?"

"What? Yes, the sun."

"Why? What did I ever do to Him?"

"What?"

"Not _that_ Son, you fecking feeble feathered git. The other one. The one in the sky." Crowley appeared at Sam's side.

"Yes! Him!"

Crowley shook his head at Sam. "Thick as a plank." He turned to Cas. "The sun. The one with the clouds."

"Yes. I know. I've seen that. Sometimes He rides on—"

"The heavenly body. The sun. The sun!"

"Yes! Well, I don't know about heavenly, but He is one of the few who was lifted into Heaven in his earthly body—"

"Oh, bloody hell. The sun, you twit. The sun! It's round and yellow and it makes the flowers grow? That one?"

"Oooohhhh! _That_ sun. Oh." Cas giggled, then. "I thought you meant—"

"We know which one you meant," Crowley muttered. "I heard Sam in here asking if he could take off your clothes and came in to join the party. Obviously, there isn't one. Just this." The demon gestured at the naked, sunburned angel. "What the bloody hell happened to you, anyway?"

Cas shrugged. "I don't know. I brought Dean home from the beach and after we bathed to remove the sand…" he trailed off as both Sam and Crowley raised their arms and faces heavenward in the universal "duh" gesture.

"You went to the _beach_?" Crowley asked. "Really? Where?"

"Never mind that. Holy shit. Dean!" Sam's stomach clenched. If Cas was this purple, his brother would be fried to a blistered mess. He rushed into the angel's bedroom, the only place he could think where Dean would be. And that's where he found his brother, a tiny lump in the huge bed; only the top of his head was visible because he'd burrowed under the blankets. Sam carefully peeled the covers back, terrified at how badly burned his brother's skin would be.

But the little boy's body was white and unblemished; he grunted in his sleep and reached out to yank the blankets back over himself. Sam let out the breath he'd been holding and turned back to Cas. "Okay. Let's start again. You took him to the beach. You used sunscreen on him?"

"Yes, Sam. You always are so careful to put it on him when you take him out. I knew it was important for his young, unblemished skin." The angel gave the sleeping boy a tender look. "I never see you put sunscreen on your body, however, so I thought it was only necessary for small people, not large ones."

"Oh, Cas." Sam bit his lip in sympathy. "Well, I've got some aloe gel. That might help, a little."

"Gel-schmell. What I want to know is-where? What beach? Who cares about the sunburn? It'll peel, you'll be fine. Believe me, I know burns, and that one's nothing." Crowley waved a dismissive hand at the angel.

"It. Hurts." Cas answered through clenched teeth.

"Oh, suck it up. Put some ice on it and you'll be fine in no time. You're a bloody angel of the effin' Lord. Here, do one of these." The King of Hell waved his fingers and Cas jumped.

"What did you do?" The angel rolled his shoulders; Sam heard the snap of wings expanding to their full length. "Oh! _Much _better."

"It's a little old demon's trick. You know, sometimes you get too close to the fire and brimstone and get singed. Helps though, doesn't it?" Crowley nodded and looked proud of himself.

"Ooh. That's—yes, I feel better." Cas wiggled experimentally; his towel fell off.

"Gah." Sam averted his eyes. Cas and Crowley continued their conversation as if the angel was in full regalia instead of full monty.

"So. Did you go to that island I was telling you about? The one with the sea stars? Or the one with the pirate cove? I _love_ that one." Crowley sat on the bed next to Dean and propped his chin in his hands. "Did you swim with the dolphins?"

Sam leaned over and lifted his brother in his arms. "You're coming with me." Dean grumbled and tangled his fingers in his hair, tugging hard. Sam winced and smiled; he brushed his lips over his brother's smooth forehead and hugged him tightly. "Goodnight, guys. We're going to bed. Turn off the lights when you're done."

"Goodnight, Sam." They chorused. Barely.

Cas continued with excitement, "Yes! And we swam with some whales, too! Did you know—"

0-0-0-0-0

"Sam? Are we there, yet?"

"No, Cas. We're only in Iowa. I want to hit Indiana before we stop." Sam sighed. They'd only been driving for fifteen minutes.

"Okay."

Sam checked the rearview. Dean sat in his car seat between Cas and Crowley, clutching BooBooKitty; he looked particularly cute in his Elmo sunglasses and the "J'Heart Paris" baseball cap Crowley had stolen for him at the hotel gift shop. He was looking out the window and behaving nicely—which probably meant… "Uh, Dean? You doing poop, buddy?" Thank God. He was afraid the boy would be bunged up permanently with all the angel transport going on. But then Cas had told him about swimming with the whales; Dean had probably swallowed salt water. He'd hoped that would move things along, and apparently-it had.

Cas raised his eyebrow and looked at the little boy. "Oh. I thought that smell was Crowley. But I didn't want to mention it because—" He lowered his voice—"It's not polite to mention when someone has an odor."

"I'm right here, you—oh, why bother? No, it's not me. I thought it was Sam, to be honest." Crowley wrinkled his nose and kicked the back of Sam's seat. "That breakfast burrito looked like a methane producer to me, _amigo_."

"Nope. That's all Dean. I'll have to look for a rest stop."

"Why? Can't Cas just snap him a clean nappy?" Crowley frowned.

The angel shook his head. "We tried that. It didn't work very well. Dean's diapers are too…um…"

"Toxic? Really. Here, let me try—" Crowley lifted his hand.

"No!" Sam and Cas screamed simultaneously, but it was too late; the demon had already snapped his fingers.

When the cloud had settled, Sam rolled down his window. "Like I said. I'll have to look for a rest stop. Only _now_ it's an emergency." He gave the demon a pointed glare in the rearview.

"Bloody hell. The diaper fucking exploded!" Crowley looked around the car in amazement. "This is quite…oh. Oh! I'm going to be sick. _Mphmphgh._ Oh, bloody he—_gak_. _Gak_! _Grumphmawaaugh_-" The King of Hell disappeared.

"Sam? Would you mind if I—" Cas, whose burn had turned golden brown—and now appeared olive-drab-waved his index finger in a circle. Whatever that meant, Sam wasn't sure, but he believed it indicated "escape" and not "clean up around the car". Because previous experience had taught them that nothing but good, old-fashioned elbow grease, instead of angel grease, was the only thing that worked against a Dean-diaper debacle.

Before he could nod, the angel had disappeared, leaving the Winchester brothers alone.

"Bwoddy feckin' git Wowwy," Dean chirped. "Duck Ass, sonovabitch."

"You can say that again," Sam agreed.

0-0-0-0-0

"Sam? Sam, the lady said we should exit in 1.5 miles."

"I heard, Cas. Thanks."

…

"Sam? We've traveled 0.25 miles since she said that."

"Thank you, Cas."

"Sam? The exit's coming up."

"Thanks, Cas."

…

"Sam? It's been 0.5…0.4…0.3…um…the lady said the exit was coming up. It's coming, Sam."

"I know, Cas. Thanks."

"Sam? It's the exit! I see the exit! It's right there!"

"Thanks Cas—Cas. Cas! Let go of the wheel! Cas! Don't touch-get your hand off-don't grab-hey! Stop—stop! Oh…shit."

"Sam? We drove past the exit."

"I know, Cas."

"Sam? The lady said she's recalculating."

"I know."

"Sam? She said the next exit's in 12.2 miles…"

…

"All right, I'm back. I've got one kid's meal with a boy toy, a fecking tossed salad, an order of onion rings and a flame broiled and…Wwait a minute. Where the hell are we, Moose? The exit was back there."

"I know."

"Sam. The next exit is in 1.8 miles."

"We missed it."

"How the hell did you miss it? You've got the electronic navigator on your phone and the celestial one on the seat beside you."

"Sam. The next exit is in 1 mile."

"I know."

"Seems bloody hard to miss an exit if he chirps like that every tenth of a mile, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't you?"

"Sam. The next exit is in 0.8 miles. No, wait…"

"I know, Cas."

"Sam. The exit's in—"

"Cas! I know!"

"What the hell is going on up there?"

"Sonuvabitch!"

"Cas! Give me the—don't—get your hands off the wheel, don't touch—I said—let the fuck go, dammit!"

"For Christ's sake, it's right there! You're driving…past…"

...

"Sam. You missed the exit."

"Recalculating…"

"Fucking hell! When's the next exit?"

"The lady said it's in 18.5 miles."

"Duckin' sod. Sonuvabitch. Ass."

"Sam? Dean's awake."

"Thanks, Cas. I noticed."

"Feathered git!"

0-0-0-0-0

"Where are you?" Bobby's voice sounded tinny over the phone. Sam clutched it tight. It was his last thread of sanity, tinny or not.

"We were supposed to be in South Bend, but we got a little sidetracked."

"And…? Where are you now?"

"Canada."

"_What_?"

"Don't ask. Please. Just…don't ask."

"Talked to Annie. She said you were in France, last night. That true?"

"Yes. Tonight we checked into a motel that didn't make Crowley squicky, so we're going to stay."

"What, he doesn't like American motels?"

"It's not that, it's just…well." Sam peered out into the room; Dean and Cas were staring out the window at Niagara Falls, beyond. "Bobby? I'm going to go get Dean ready for bed. Cas and I promised to take him to the hotel pool first. It's been a long day."

"Wo-hoo. An indoor pool. Swanky."

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "Real swanky."

"Okay. You take it easy. And call in again tomorrow. You gonna get there on time with all this be-boppin' around the globe?"

"I will, Bobby. I will." Sam promised, and hung up. He stood in the bathroom doorway, listening.

"Oooh. Big water fall down," Dean said.

"That's right." Cas answered.

"Wook! Dere's Wowwy in da bawwel."

"That's right. There's Crowley in the barrel!"

"H'way! H'way for Wowwy! Oooh. Bawwel fall down. Where Wowwy go?"

"In the water."

"Why?"

"Because it's fun."

"Why?"

"Because he thought it would make you laugh."

"Why?"

"Because…because it's funny."

"Why?"

"Sam?"

Sam sighed. From his research, he didn't think toddlers entered the "why" phase until later, but this was Dean and anything was possible. "Dean? Want to go swimming?"

"H'way!" Dean jumped off the chair. "'Mon, Ass. Wet's go swim." The boy paused. "Dam? Whales there?"

"No whales, Dean."

"Want whales."

"No, Dean."

"Dee. Want. Whaaaaaaaaaales!"

"Oh, fuck me. Isn't this where we started?" Sam hurried into the bathroom and locked the door before he killed his little brother for real.

0-0-0-0-0

When he got to the hotel pool, only Dean, Cas, and Crowley were there. Cas was floating, face up; Dean was paddling off to the side, in a kiddy pool, with water wings and what appeared to be...a small whale.

Sam shook his head and approached the pool.

"It's not funny," Cas was saying.

"It is. It really is! And it explains SO much." Crowley insisted.

There was a splash; Dean and the whale squealed at each other.

"Let's ask Sam. Look." Crowley gestured to the hunter. "Sam. Come here."

The angel, spread-eagled on the surface of the water (and wearing an "I Heart Niagara Falls" bathing suit Crowley had stolen for him from the hotel gift shop), sighed.

"Okay. Watch this." Crowley grabbed Cas' ankle and turned him so that the top of Cas' head pointed at Sam. "Ready? You watching?"

"I'm watching." Sam sat down on the edge of the pool with his legs hanging in the water.

"Okay. I let him go and..."

Cas' body spun around gently, bobbing, until his head pointed in the original direction.

"Did you see that?" Crowley giggled.

"He spun around. So?"

"It's due North. He's a fucking comp-ass. Get it? Comp-ASS?"

Cas sighed.

"Explains how we ended up in Canada, anyway." Sam shrugged.

"No sense of humor. At all," the demon complained.

* * *

_Feel free to leave a review. I can't tell you that it will help my Muse one way or another, however. She does what she wants. The witch. I enjoy it, though, so..._


	23. Chapter 23

_Author's Note: Many many MANY thanks to flutterby cupcake for the wonderful pic of a certain someone (with awesome hair) emerging from the ocean wearing nothing but the skin God placed him in. And it's damn fine skin, I must say.  
_

_And _you_ don't get to see it. Neener neener._

_I bet if you go review her stories, she'll share with you though. ;)_

_Also__—and this is important__—I must apologize for taking liberties with a location, certain situations and very special people I know nothing about. This is fiction and I used my imagination; I'm probably way off and wrong about it all, but I still had fun writing it and have no regrets posting it here for you to read. Please don't hold me accountable (or sue me) for any inaccuracies or potentially libelous characterizations. _

_And on that cheerful note, I present **Chapter Twenty Three**: in which Cas really messes up big time and everyone is screwed._

* * *

Sam woke with a jerk.

And not because Dean had kicked him in the _cahones_, as usual, but because something was off. _Way off. _But what?

He sat up and looked around the room.

It was different than the one they'd started in the night before.

Across the nautical-themed space, Sam saw Cas, sitting on one end of the couch with his arms and legs crossed and a big pout on his face, and Crowley in a similar position, with a similar expression, on the other end. They were staring in opposite directions.

"Um…guys? What the hell?"

"Cassie decided _he_ didn't like the room I picked, so _he_ picked _another_ one."

"I didn't like the motel. The _room _was fine."

"Nitpicky. You can't have one without the other."

"There were too many demons there!"

_There were?_ Sam frowned.

"It was a prime location!"

"I didn't like it."

"You don't like _anything_."

"I don't like YOU."

"Oh yeah? Well. I don't like YOU, either."

Sam sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay. So where are we?"

"Vancouver."

"_Fucking_ Vancouver!"

"_What?!_" He gripped the sides of his head in case it exploded. Maybe he'd be able to save at least a part of his brain. "That's on the other side of the country…the other side of the country _above_ the country of where we _need_ to be in five more days! And I wanted to get there in three days. Well, that's not going to happen, is it?" _Brain or no brain, I'm screwed, no matter what._ He let go of his head and fell back onto his pillows. "I give up. You don't _really_ want me to change Dean back, do you? You keep saying it, but then you do everything you possible can to fuck it up."

Dean shifted and lifted his head. "Sss. Dam. Quiet. Dee sweepin'." He poked his thumb into his mouth, snuggled back under the blankets and sighed; in another moment he emitted a gentle snore.

Cas stood and gestured to Sam: _meet me outside_.

Sam grabbed up his jeans and stalked out of the room. They were on the lower level of a cheesy-looking motel but it didn't look like anyone was around to see him standing there in his boxers and nothing else. Still, he slipped his jeans on and shivered in the early morning chill. "Okay. What is it?"

"Sam. I think I made a mistake."

"Really?" He wrapped his arms around his bare torso. "Because you zapped us to Vancouver?" Fucking_ Vancouver_. Sam glared at the angel, wishing he had some spite power of his own.

"Well, there's that, and…" Cas tucked his hands into his trench coat pockets and hung his head. "_Mghtvgntoofr_," he mumbled.

"What?" Sam bent closer to hear.

"_Skpddmnshn_…"

"What?" He put his hand on the angel's shoulder. "What are you trying to say, Cas?"

"I think…" Cas lifted his head and rolled his eyes skyward. "No, I know…I…"

"For fuck's sake, what's going on out here?" Crowley appeared in the doorway, closing the door behind himself. "His Highness just woke up again. He's lying in the middle of the bed, wubbing his wittle gween eyes and demanding choc'wate and pie."

"Pie? Seriously?" Sam turned to peek in at his brother. "I don't give him pie. How does he know about—"

"I gave him pie. Yesterday. When you stopped to de-poop the Impala, I took him into the rest stop's fast food place, cleaned him up and got him some pie," Cas said. "Because I know it's his favorite."

"Well, he wants it right now. I mean—_right_ the fuck now. I think he even said that, actually." Crowley shrugged.

"He can't have pie for breakfast."

"What if it's breakfast pie?" Cas asked. "Isn't _quiche_ a breakfast pie?"

"Wings has a good point there, Moose. Quiche is a _type_ of pie…"

"I don't know. I suppose." Sam shook his head. "Look, I'm freezing. Can we just go into the room and discuss this there?"

"Sure." Crowley turned around and grabbed the handle. "Oh. The door's…I'll just—" He snapped his fingers and pushed, but the door remained closed. He looked over his shoulder at Sam and Cas. "That's odd. _Hehehe_…must be a side effect of traveling by angel. I just…" he snapped again and jiggled the knob. "It's locked. The fecking door is locked!" He snapped a third time. "No, it's—" _Snap. Snap._ _Snapsnapsnapsnap…_ "_Whatthefuckthedoorwon'topen!_"

"Here. Let me." Sam pushed Crowley out of the way and tried the knob. "Won't open."

"No shit, Gigantuar. That's what I said." The King of Hell raised his hands and glared.

Sam ignored him to jiggle the knob again. "No…nope. Definitely locked."

"I could have done that. I _did_ do that. Feathers? Do you mind?" Crowley looked at the angel and snapped again. "Give it the ol' one-two? 'Cause Moose is right. It's nippy out here."

"I can't," Cas sighed.

"What do you mean, you can't? Of course you can, you git. You put your middle and your thumb together, like this—"

"No." Cas sighed. "I mean, I can't unlock the door."

"What? Why?" Sam turned and looked at Cas; the angel's shoulders were slouched in his trench coat and his hands remained buried in his pockets. He looked…depressed. "Cas, what's wrong?"

"That's what I tried to tell you, Sam. I can't use my...well, Dean calls it my 'mojo'. Because—I moved us too far."

"What?" Sam frowned. "Okay. Look. Yes, I know, Vancouver is on the wrong side of the continent, but that doesn't mean you can't use your mojo. Of course you can. What's the… Crowley? What are you—Cas?" He noticed the angel backing up a step at a time as the demon began to advance. A step at a time. With his hands outstretched and his face glowing an alarming shade of red. "Crowley! Stop!"

"I'm going to fecking kill you, you bloody feather-brained twit!" Crowley launched himself at the angel. Cas turned to run, but he wasn't fast enough; the King of Hell knocked him to the ground.

"Ow! Don't you hit me, you—you demon!"

"I'll hit you if I want to, you fucking dimwitted—_mpgh_!" Crowley's head snapped back as Cas rolled, hauled back and landed him in the mouth with a hard right. The angel pulled himself out from under the King of Hell and backed up, his fists readied.

"You—I'm bleeding. I'm fucking _bleeding_!" Crowley made to launch himself at Cas once more, but Sam blocked his advance.

"Stop! Stop it, right now. Before someone calls the cops. What the hell is the matter with you two?"

"I'll tell you what the matter is, you brainless behemoth. He zapped us too the fuck far!"

"Calm down. So what?" Sam pressed one palm to Crowley's straining chest while holding Cas back with the other. "We can just zap back."

"No, we can't. Because he crossed dimensions." Crowley glared under Sam's outstretched arm and shook his fist at Cas. "Our mojo won't work."

"What?" Sam straightened. _Wait a minute. Does that mean…oh hell, I should have just let my brain explode. _

"Yeah. Is it clicking, yet, Moose? Zippy McMagic over there overshot our plane of existence and zapped us into a whole other universe. One where we don't exist and shouldn't exist, and worse—where we _can't function the way we're meant to_!" Crowley's nostrils flared. "We're fucking _stuck_ here!"

"What?" Sam turned and looked down at Cas. _You're fucking kidding me, right?_

He held up his hands and shrugged. "Oops?"

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" He launched himself at the angel.

But Crowley stopped _him_ this time. "Wait! Wait. The cops. You're right. The cops. We're in the middle of a parking lot. Someone's bound to see us. And you're packing." He stuck his hand into Sam's waistband and common sense prevailed.

"Whoa!" Sam backed up. "Dude! _Not_ a gun!"

"Oh. Sorry." Crowley grinned and Sam could see he wasn't sorry at all for grabbing his _not a gun_. "But you have one in there, don't you? I mean, if there's room." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Well, yeah." Sam frowned, feeling squicky. "Come to think of it…I've got a lock pick, too."

"Now you're talking. Let's go in." Crowley grabbed Sam by the elbow. "You. Feathers. Stay outside."

"I don't want to stay outside."

"Shut up. We don't like you."

"But—"

Sam ignored Cas. For now. If he turned around to look at the angel, he might want to kill him all over again, and now that Crowley had reminded him of the pistol in his pocket, it would be easier to do it from a distance. He moved to the door, pulled the pick from his pocket and bent to reach the knob.

And the door swung open.

Sam's stomach fell. "Dean?" he asked, though he expected no answer. Because—predictably, really—the room was empty. "Dean!"

"Aw, hell. The little bastard's escaped again. Jeeezum Crow." Crowley sighed. "All right. Let's go find the little shit before he burns Canada to the ground, or something. We'll recon back here in twenty."

"What do you want me to do?" Cas asked.

Sam didn't answer. He couldn't, because his answer would have been too rude. So he ignored Cas and concentrated on Crowley, who said, "Shut up and wait here, fuckwit. In case he comes back. Winchester, you go left, I'll go right. We'll circle the building."

"What if he went straight?" Cas tried again.

"Ha. The angel wonders if Dean's gone straight. And fanfic writers everywhere just exploded." Crowley made a rude noise. "See you in twenty, Moose."

"Right, Crowley."

They separated without looking back.

0-0-0-0-0

"Oh my God. Why aren't you on set?" A woman rounded the corner of the hotel; she had a clipboard and a walkie talkie, and she looked stressed. Sam took a step back when she glared at him.

"Are you talking to me?" He peered over his shoulder but there was no one else there.

"These gags have got to stop. We need to be on a plane to LA by day's end, and we need to wrap this up. Come on." She grabbed his arm and pulled.

"I'm sorry. I—"

"Shut up, Jared. I don't care how amazing you look with no shirt on, you're going to wardrobe and make up right now and then you're moving your ass to the lot with the rest of the jokers and we're getting this done. Honestly. You guys are like a bunch of toddlers."

_Toddlers!_ "Exactly. I don't think you understand. I'm looking for my brother—"

She stopped, sighed and turned to glare at him. Her dark-brown eyes were rimmed in black eyeliner. She looked like a demon. Only meaner. "Yeah, right. Dean's lost yattayattayatta. Bleh. I got it. I read the script, you twit."

"Script?" He blinked.

Her lips twitched. Her eyes narrowed. She began to growl. "Wardrobe. Hair. Makeup. Done. NOW. Got it?"

Sam stared at her.

He'd faced many scary things in his life. Vamps. Demons. Rogue angels. Revenants. Wendigos. Ghosts. Witches. Werewolves. Lucifer. Clowns. And a host of other monsters whose names he couldn't remember.

But none of them scared him as much as the look in this woman's eyes.

She was going to rip his head off, and shove it up his ass.

But first, she was going to tear his dick off.

And feed it to the birds.

He gulped. "Okay."

0-0-0-0-0

_Fuckwittage._ Pure, feathered _fuckwittage_.

Crowley had been human once, and once was enough. But here he was—not even in his own century, or country, for that matter—skulking around a crap-motel looking for a bloody bleeding fecking toddler Winchester.

Though, he had to admit, the kid was kind of cute. If you liked demons.

Which Crowley did.

But Dean W. was beyond demonic. If only he could harness that power, that ability to create chaos and wreak devastation wherever he went—he'd rule. The universe. The cosmos. The heavens. And Hell, of course. Well, always Hell.

First, he had to get the little shit to grow the fuck up. And then—well, the sky was the limit.

Right now, _everything_ was the limit. He was powerless and it sucked. Big time. He peeked around the corner and was surprised to see Sam following a woman who had short, spikey red hair and who had the soft, curvy figure he enjoyed in a woman.

"Hullo, Dammy. Gonna hit that when you're supposed to be looking for your brother? I think not, mate." He hurried after him. "Sam. Sam!"

Sam turned and looked at him; when Crowley got closer—_fuck, he was human and now he needed glasses, too?_—he realized the hunter had a look of panic on his face.

The woman spun around. "Sheppard! Great. I was just about to go look for you anyway. Now I won't have to." She turned back and keep walking.

And Sam kept following.

He fell into step beside him. "What are you doing? Don't you have a little brother to find?"

"I can't." Sam hissed out of the side of his mouth.

"What do you mean, you can't? You can, and you will. Let's go, Winchest…er, hullo." Crowley realized the woman had stopped walking and turned back to glare at him.

_Holy Mother of God._ He swallowed and hid behind Sam before she melted him on the spot. "Right. You're a scary one, aren't you?"

"Don't. You. EVEN. Try," she said through gritted teeth. "You will be ready and on your mark by 11:00 a.m., and I don't want to hear otherwise. You got that?"

"Uh-huh." Crowley nodded. "Got it."

"All right then." She resumed walking; he and Sam fell into step behind her.

"What the hell is going on?" Crowley muttered.

"I don't know. Keep walking. If she has to stop again, I think she'll kill us." Sam answered.

"She reminds me of a nun I used to know." Crowley shuddered. "Sister Joseph Agnes. Man, that woman could castrate a man with one swing of her beads." He frowned. "This one doesn't have Rosary Beads, does she?"

"She's got a clipboard and a walkie, and that's enough," Sam answered.

"Right. So…where is she taking us?"

"I have no idea. She said something about makeup and wardrobe…" Sam frowned and slowed down. "Oh no…wait. I think I've been here before."

"You have? That's great. Where the hell are we and more importantly—how do we get home?"

"I don't know." Sam turned to look at him with eyes full of panic. "This time, I really don't know. But if you see Ruby, just remember—she's not a demon. She's my wife."

0-0-0-0-0

D'pala was in the lot. There were people around it. They weren't paying attention to Dee and BooBooKitty.

Maybe Dam was there. Or Ass. Or maybe even Wowwy.

Dee wanted pie. He was hungry. He pushed his way through the crowd of people; none of them looked down and he didn't bother to look up. He kept his eyes on his target. The car. The beautiful, big, shiny, black car that made a growling noise. Inside it was one of his favorite places to be.

Dee loved the 'pala. It smelled right. Except when Wowwy tried to change his diaper.

Bwoody git Wowwy.

Sometimes in the 'pala, there were fish. And tee-gwams. And duice. So it was a good place to start to ease the ache in his belly. He would find fish, and eat them, and the gwaham bears, and then he would find pie.

He knew he couldn't open the door, but there was a window open in the back. All he needed to do was cwimb, and that was easy. Dee was good at cwimbing. Dam called him a monkey.

Dee was not a monkey. He was a Hunter. He hunted for…pie.

He made his way around a cluster of wires and got close to the car. "Up a daisy," he told BooBoo, and hurled him through the window before climbing through himself and sitting right on the backseat because his car seat was missing.

But Dam was in the front seat, with another man.

The man sat behind the steering wheel. This was not good. Nobody but Dam was supposed to drive the 'Pala. It was a rule. He didn't know—and didn't care—why it was that way, but he knew deep down inside that no one but Dam should be driving the 'Pala.

Seeing that man up there made him mad.

So he did the only thing he could.

"Booboo!" He lobbed his kitty at the man's head.

"Ow! Fuck! What the hell—_what_ is this?" The man picked up BooBoo and turned, his eyes glaring; they softened when he saw Dean.

Still, Dee glared back. This was important. "Dam dwive d'pala," he said. "Not da man."

"Hold up! Hold up everybody." The man said, holding up his hand to the people outside the 'Pala and turning to Dam. "Dude. Did you do this? Seriously? Who's kid is this?"

"I don't know," Dam peered at him and wrinkled his forehead. "He's in his jammies. Weird. I didn't do this, though. I promise. Who the—Misha! Did you stick this kid in the backseat?"

There was laughter, which made Dee frown. He didn't think it was funny. He was hungry and he wanted to eat. Now. And, his diaper was wet and he didn't like that. Wowwy should have changed him when he woke up. But he'd gone outside and left him all alone.

Dee didn't like to be alone.

"Dammy. Wan' diaper fix." He climbed over the seat into his brother's lap and wrapped his arms around his brother's neck. "Wan' pie."

Instead of wrapping his arms around him—which was what Dam normally did—he leaned away. Dee wanted to cry. He clung to Dam's neck. Why didn't he love him?

"_Eugh_. Hey, buddy. You're wet. Somebody want to handle this? Misha, this isn't funny!"

"What's not funny?" came the familiar voice, and Dee looked out the window to see Ass making his way to the car. _Ass_ would make it better.

"Ass!" Dee said, and leaned out the window to grab his angel by the neck. "Dee wan' pie!"

"Don't have any pie, kiddo." Ass pushed Dee down to stand on his own feet. Why? Dee wanted the angel to wrap his arms, and his wings, around him and make him feel safe and happy. And dry.

Right now, Dee realized, he wasn't happy. He was hungry and he wanted a diaper change. Dee put his arms around his angel's knees and held on tightly. There was only one way he could think of to get Ass to pay attention to him and stop talking to all the people.

"Okay, who's kid is this? Says he wants—ooomph!" Ass doubled over as Dee wound up and gave him the best head butt he could.

0-0-0-0-0

Cas sighed and leaned against the big picture window of their hotel room.

He was sorry that he'd overshot their dimension. If Crowley hadn't been talking to those demons outside their room, he wouldn't have been so angry. But they wanted to go in and hurt Dean and Cas didn't want to take that chance. Even though Crowley was handling it, telling them "no", that he had other plans for the hunter and he needed to be adult and able again, Cas didn't trust him.

And especially not them.

So he'd gathered in everything he had until it was concentrated in a tight little ball of power and lifted them away and out of there in a hurry.

He apparently had had more power than he realized.

And now, he had no power at all.

Dean was lost and it was all his fault.

He sighed again. Dam and Crowley still hadn't returned. He wondered where they were. And again, he couldn't help but worry. What if Dean really had gone straight and not around the building like they assumed?

Why would they assume that?

If anything, Dean would head away from the hotel, especially if he was hungry. He'd be looking for a place that had recognizable food, like a McDonald's with the golden arches or the place with the donuts they enjoyed. Especially the crème filled, but not the jelly. And not the powdered ones, because if you breathed in taking a bite, your vessel could choke to death (he'd made that mistake a few times).

No. Dean wouldn't have gone to the left or to the right, but straight. And that's where Cas was going to go, too. He headed out.

* * *

_I hope Cas finds toddler Dean before he's arrested for assaulting Misha Collins with one of his copyrighted crotch-headbutts. Please feel free to review!_ _(But not sue.) _


	24. Chapter 24

_Author's note: So on Saturday I had 5060 words written and the chapter completed and ready to upload to the document manager and—my hard drive died. As in, I took it to a tech geek and the only thing we could do was say last rites and sprinkle it with holy water.  
_

_Nothing was recoverable. Absolutely _nothing_. According to __**flutterby cupcake**__, I was smited. By Crowley.(Because...well, you'll find out why.)  
_

_Whether the intervention was divine or demonic, I had to buy a new computer (because GOD FORBID I wait the two to three weeks required to slam a new hard drive into my old computer. OMG, I just realized: they're going to re-animate it. It will be a Zombie Laptop…or will it be a revenant? Perhaps a ghoul…). _

_It took me several days to set the new laptop up and several more days for me to feel brave enough to attempt to rewrite the chapter that was lost. Of course, those lost words were (at least in my imagination) waaaaay better than these, even though as I wrote them the first time around I'd thought to myself: "_Damn, this chapter is not living up to the hype"_ more than once._

_Still, before you begin to read, I ask that you bow your heads in a moment of silence. For laptops and words lost. Sigh. Sadness. Microsoft=Micro blows. Waah.  
_

_Okay. On with the show!_

_Oh! Wait. Did you guys see the tweet about how, at the Vegas Con, Jared said he texted Gen to let her know they made it to the Con safely, and she texted back: "Great. Thomas just pooped on the floor and Shep won't stop crying."_

_Sounds rather familiar, doesn't it? So, with that in mind, I've decided to dedicate this story to Gen Padelecki and all who are or have been the Mommies of toddlers. Because Daddies suck. (They go off to cons and get to do things like—I dunno—get to use the bathroom alone and without interruption. They're so spoiled!)_

* * *

**TWENTY-FOUR**

"I'll be back for you after you've put a goddamn shirt on," the redhead had barked over her shoulder at him, ignoring the demon cursing and sputtering by her side. "Your nipples are purple." And they were. Sam silently thanked the owner of the trailer—Jared—for the use of a shirt; it was nice to discover a full wardrobe of clothes that fit his tall, muscular frame.

It had been even nicer to find Jared's wallet tucked in drawer, full of cash, a few credit cards and a driver's license. He'd grabbed most of the cash, one credit card, and the license. He felt bad—he wasn't a thief. Just the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Sort of like Crowley, who had been hauled to the makeup trailer first. At least that made it slightly easier to do what was necessary; he knew where to start in order to rescue Crowley. The hard parts would be finding Dean, retrieving Cas, stealing a car, and getting the hell out of Dodge. Or at least this particular version of Vancouver.

Near impossible would be returning to their own dimension. But he'd tackle that when he got there. For now, step one was Crowley. He reached for the trailer's door handle, only to drop back when the door opened, by itself—and Sam was face to face with himself. Or at least, the Jared Padalecki version of himself, self.

"Who are you?" The actor stared at him in surprise.

"I'm not you." Sam punched him in the face, knocking him out with one blow.

As soon as the actor began to fall, Sam grabbed him, pulled him up the stairs into the trailer and dragged him across the floor to the couch. It wasn't easy; he weighed as much as Sam, of course, and his size made his awkward to maneuver. It wasn't like Sam could easily sling him over his shoulder.

He lay him down, propping his head on a pillow so his neck didn't cramp and then checking the guy's vitals to make sure he hadn't accidentally killed him. Which would have been awkward. Sam knew there was no way he could take Jared's place; he wasn't an actor by any stretch of the imagination. And, too, it wasn't like he'd have time to dispose of the body. Especially one so big.

_Now I get why Crowley calls me Moose._

"Sorry about knocking you out," he told Jared, who didn't respond. Of course. Worse, Sam knew from personal experience, the guy was going to have a pounding headache when he came to, and he felt kind of bad for him. So after a moment's thought, he dug around in the cupboards until he found a bottle of OTC painkillers.

Sam left them on the table along with a hastily scrawled note written to assuage his conscience: "Sorry for the inconvenience and for the headache. I took some money and stuff from your wallet. I'll send it all back to the address on your license as soon as I can. Thanks for everything. Sam W."

Of course, if they made it back to their own dimension, he wouldn't be sending Jared a thing. Guilt again. Before he left the trailer, he spread a blanket over the prone man, too. Overall, a pathetic apology, but the best he could do with such pressing needs. "Good luck, dude," he whispered; he wasn't sure if he was wishing that to his twin—or himself.

0-0-0-0-0

The Impala.

There it was, in the middle of a crowd of people, in the middle of a parking lot. _Lo, and as the Angel of the Lord and Defender of the Winchesters rounded the warehouse, he did see in the distance The Car._ Cas tried to ignore the Voice of Prophecy that more or less made commentaries on whatever happened around the Winchesters. _Shut up_, he told the Voice of Prophecy. _You're really annoying. And, you're probably wrong._

He stopped behind a bush to be sure it was, in fact, Dean's Impala. He'd learned the hard way that there were many cars on Earth which appeared similar to other cars when—one time—he'd gone with Bobby to the market and had decided to leave when the hunter was in line. He'd climbed into what he'd thought was Bobby's vehicle only to scare (almost to death) the woman whose car it actually was.

Later, he'd realized the "Warning: I Brake for the Rapture" bumper sticker should have been a tip off. Neither Bobby nor Sam would give a head nod to the Rapture, never mind brake for it. They'd barely slowed down for the Apocalypse, so the Rapture wouldn't generate much interest for them. But at the time, he hadn't realized that people placed their ideologies, idiosyncrasies and icons on their cars and he himself hadn't paid much attention to the Rapture Warning.

Since then, he'd decided to put some sort of sticker on Dean's car, just for identification purposes, and had decided on a rainbow. In part, because he liked rainbows and—mostly—because they were a symbol his Father had created of His covenant with His people.

When he'd asked Sam about it, the hunter had told him Dean would be thrilled by a rainbow sticker and told him not to put it on the chromed bumper in case it peeled off and took the paint with it (because then Dean would be angry). So Cas had informed Sam he could make the bond permanent and that it would be impossible to peel it off. Dean's brother had grinned and told Cas to go for it.

Later, when Bobby and Crowley had noticed it, they too had both been quite pleased and told him they couldn't wait for adult Dean to see it. They assured him he'd be especially happy it could never be removed.

"It's like he'll have Ass forever, eh Bobby?" Crowley had said, and winked, and Bobby had sputtered on his beer and tears—of joy, Cas figured, because the older man had been smiling—rolled down his cheeks.

Now, standing here and looking across the lot, he realized the black Impala he saw was not Dean's but one that belonged to someone else. This one had no rainbow.

But then, he noticed his little boy—_his_ Dean!—leaping out of the car to hug a man's neck.

The man did not hug back. Instead, he put the little boy down. Cas could see from Dean's posture what he planned, and the angel leapt forward to warn the man. _(And verily, the Angel of the Lord readied his tongue to shout "Guard thee thy testicles!")_ But it was too late—the man crumpled to the ground, clutching his injured parts, and Dean, his small shoulders slumped, stared at the man. Cas broke into a run. He knew the little boy was afraid and very sad. And probably in danger, because people who didn't share a profound bond with Dean didn't like to be headbutted in the owies. "I will save you, Dean!"

_But behold! A miracle did in this place occur,_ the Voice of Prophecy intoned and Cas stopped in his tracks as the driver's side door opened, and adult Dean stepped out; he walked around the car with that familiar, bow-legged stride. Castiel's vessel's heart pounded a little faster at the sight; he found himself breathless as he watched adult Dean stop before little Dean, bend slightly and lift the younger version of himself into his arms. And hand him BooBooKitty.

Cas worried his lip as the implications of their situation registered. _Oh excrement, thought the Angel of the Lord, I hath carried everyone into a parallel universe. We are so screwed._

0-0-0-0-0

Sam found his way to the makeup and wardrobe trailer, mostly by following the sounds of wails and curses. He opened the door and stepped inside to see Crowley slouched in a chair in front of a lighted mirror, muttering, as a woman sprayed and teased his hair.

"Moose! Tell this cow I don't have a bald spot!" Crowley demanded as he spotted Sam's reflection in the mirror.

"Um…" Sam stared. "Actually…"

"What? What! You're kidding." The King of Hell grabbed a hand mirror from the station in front of him and lifted it. "Where? I can't—oh, bloody hell! I can't see—I need glasses! I hate being human! I hate it, I hate it, I hate it—"

Sam smiled at the beleaguered hairdresser. "He's getting into character, I think."

"Really?" She gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Nice."

"Yeah. Well…" Sam shrugged.

"Can't you just—give me that comb!" Crowley snatched it from her hand and tugged it through his hair.

"Dude, a comb-over is probably only going to make it worse," Sam pointed out.

"Shut up, Winchester. Wait until your pretty locks go all to shit and then you can talk to me about the vagaries of a comb over. Until then, shut yer yap and leave me alone." He poofed and coiffed and sputtered. "There. Better?"

"You look like you have horns," Sam said.

"Shut up. Fat lot you know, you walking hairball." Crowley threw the comb on the counter in front of the mirror and stood, tearing the cape from his neck.

"You're not done yet," the stylist said.

"Oh, I'm done. Don't push it. I'm _very_ done. Let's go, Moose." He stalked to the door; Sam shrugged and gave the woman an apologetic smile as he followed.

"Oh my God!" The door swung open. "You wouldn't believe what's going on! Somehow, some kid got onto the set and he headbutted Misha in the nuts. And then Jared was attacked in his trailer by a guy who he said looked just like him and and…and…and…um…why do you look…like _me_. Oh, hell. You. You're him."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Grab him, Moose! You hold him down while I check out the bald spot!"

The actor named Mark made a squeaking noise, turned tail and ran as though the Hounds of Hell were on his heels. Close enough, Sam thought, as Crowley took off after him. "Come back here, you bloody git, and let me see! What do I need? Rogain? Follicle replacement? A weave? Slow down, you fucking bastard!"

"Have a nice day," Sam told the makeup artist and ran after them.

It was evident, however, that the actor took far better care of himself than Crowley did of his vessel; in a short while, the King of Hell was wheezing and bent over, holding onto his knees as he panted, "Come...back...I...just...want...to...oh, hell...I...hate...being...human...I'm...gonna...puke."

"He's going straight to security," Sam told the demon. "Nice job."

"Oh...like...he wouldn't...have...anyway?"

"I could have grabbed him and—"

"Babe? Are you okay?" said a woman behind them.

"I'm...fine," Crowley panted.

"Not you, Mark."

"Ruby?" the King of Hell squinted at the woman behind him. "Fecking hell. She's a dead ringer, she is."

"It's not Ruby!" Sam groaned.

The woman came up between them and threaded one arm through Sam's. She lifted her other arm and touched his face with a cool palm. "They called and told me what happened. Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

"I—No! I'm fine, I—"

"Fucking incredible is what that is. Want me to gank her for you, Moose or—"

"Shut up, Crowley!" Sam tried to smile at the dark-haired beauty stroking his face.

"Yeah, shut up Mark. Come on, Babe—let's go back to your trailer. I don't like the look in your eyes. They're all wild." Not Ruby dropped her hand and turned to stare at Crowley. "What happened to you?"

He grinned and straightened. "I need to take a picture of this. Hold on." He pulled his phone from his pocket. "Smile."

She struck a pose. Sam stared at her. He supposed that in her life, having pictures taken wasn't an absolutely excruciating experience but an everyday occurrence leading to joy, happiness and perhaps monetary gain instead of humiliation and agony. Because she really was beautiful. And he was...tall. He sighed and glowered at Crowley. "Are you done?"

"One more, Moose." The King of Hell grinned. "Lovely, that."

"Okay. Let's go inside." Not Ruby grabbed his hand. "I left the kids with Nanny."

"Kids?" Sam's knees turned rubbery. "Wait a minute. There are...kids?"

"Oh, this is brilliant. Moose and Ruby have spawned." Crowley rubbed his hands together, and chuckled.

Not Ruby frowned. "Jared? Jared!"

"I—I—Oh my God. I think I'm going to faint." The ground suddenly looked much closer. He looked at Not Ruby as he fell; she reached out to grab him.

"Mark! Help!" Not Ruby screamed.

"Babe! What's wro—Oh my God, it's him!" Another voice was heard—a remarkably familiar one— and Sam noticed his mirror image staring down at him as he collapsed upon Not Ruby. And then, all went dark.

0-0-0-0-0

When he opened his eyes, Ruby was hanging over him. "Gah!" he screamed and scrambled to his feet. Or tried to, anyway. They tangled in a blanket and he fell forward, landing on a soft and unpleasantly pleased Crowley.

"All you had to do was ask, luv," Crowley purred fondly. "You don't need to be coy."

"Gah!" Sam stood up straight. "Gah. Erg. Eww." He turned to see his double lounging in a chair, huge and with his legs spread. He looked relaxed and practically unfazed. "Ah!"

"Does he always talk like that?" Not Ruby asked Crowley.

"It's the native language of the Sasqwatch," the demon answered. "A series of grunts intermittent with burps, farts and the occasionally intelligent word."

"Shut up, Crowley," Sam said automatically, staring at the actor named Jared.

The actor nodded. "See? I knew he was going to say that. I've got him nailed."

Sam frowned and took a deep breath. He turned away to look at Crowley. "What's going on? Why are we here and not in prison?"

"You fell on poor Ms. Gen here. You really should be more careful. You could have squashed her." Crowley raised an eyebrow at the actor and his wife. "To be honest, I'm surprised _you_ haven't squashed her. Two kids they have, Sammy. Two!" He held up his phone. "They sent me pics. The little buggers are huge! Big surprise there." He grinned.

"Shut up." Sam took a deep breath to calm himself and faced the actor and Not Ruby. "Why haven't you had us arrested?"

"Well, for one thing..." he held up Sam's note. "You have my license. For another—how often do I get to meet the guy I play? This is the opportunity of a lifetime!"

"How do you know I'm not just some nutcase?" Sam bit his lip.

"Because—there's him, for one thing. And I saw the Misha-look-a-like, too." Jared's eyes widened. "Holy shit. That was Cas, wasn't it? That's the real Cas! We have to get him before they haul him off to jail." He stood up.

"Oh, shit." Sam's heart bumped. "They'll probably take him to a psyche ward."

"They'll definitely take him to a psyche ward!" Crowley said cheerfully, and giggled. "This is great."

"Shut up, Crowley!" Sam and Jared said. And looked at each other.

"Nailed it again," Jared said. Then he shrugged. "The other reason we decided not to have you arrested is because you left a note."

"And covered Jared up with a blanket. Obviously, you didn't mean to hurt him," Not Ruby added.

"And because I argued your case brilliantly," Crowley chimed in.

"Shut up!" They chorused, again.

"Nailed it again. I have this guy down, Babe," the actor chortled.

Sam sighed and turned away. "I hate my life." _Did you nail that? I'd like to nail you..._

He stilled as there was a knock at the door, and looked at Crowley who stared back with a somewhat panicked look in his eyes. Because if they got discovered and taken away...

Not Ruby held up her hands. "I'll get this. Don't worry." She patted Sam's arm as she passed. "If you need to, find a place to hide."

"He's 6'4". Where is he gonna hide? It's a trailer!" Crowley pointed out. Then he rolled his eyes as they glared at him. "Okay, okay, I know. Shut up blehbleh." He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. "Pouncing gits."

"Shh!" Not Ruby opened the door. "Oh! Jensen! And who's this little guy?"

"Dean!" Sam didn't realize he was rushing down the stairs until he heard Not Ruby squeak. "Sorry. My brother," he said, and grabbed the little boy from Dean's arms.

_Dean? Wait. No. It's—_

"Dude!" Dean's adult double barked. "You didn't have to trample your wife. I would have given him to you."

"Sorry," Sam muttered, hanging on to the little boy for dear life. He gave his brother's mirror image the best smile he could muster with a squishy, urine-soaked and greatly loved toddler burrowing into his neck. "I was scared. Thanks for taking care of my brother."

"What?" the man said. "What's going—"

"Get inside, Jensen," Not Ruby ordered. "Hurry!"

* * *

_Well. My original version had more of an ending. And this one will, too. Unless Ff's hard drive dies and can't be revived. (Why do I feel like I should say "God forbid" and make the sign of the cross, here?) You'll just have to wait while I finish writing it. Again. _

_If this was an old time radio show, there would be a question. Will Cas go to the nuthouse? Will Dean get a clean diaper? And will Crowley ever get a weave? Tune in next time with: Play It Again, Sam!  
_

_Please feel free to leave a review. ;)_


	25. Chapter 25

_Author's Note: Beware of rim shots!_

_Ugh. Too many characters. Too much confusion. Too much Moose! (Is there such a thing as too much Moose?) I'm sorry I couldn't figure out a way to make them wet and bathing on a beach in Brazil; I'll leave that up to your sordid imaginations. (Oh, hell, it's in my sordid imagination, too, I just couldn't make it happen in the context of this chapter.)_

_Once again, my sincerest apologies to the real people who I've turned into cardboard characters in my own story. I feel dirty. If only my brain could take a long, hot shower. _

_Oh well. Anyhow-enjoy. (By the way...I told you there was something hinky about BooBooKitty...)_

* * *

TWENTY FIVE

"Um…okay." The man glanced at Sam, noticed Jared, then gave Sam a full-on stare. "What the…_what_ is going on, here? Is this a joke? Did Misha…?"

"Hi," Sam said, smiling slightly but completely unnerved. Seeing Dean's doppelganger was even weirder than seeing his own. Probably because he was used to seeing Dean from the outside; seeing Jared was like looking in a mirror but he never spent much time doing that. This, however…it was strange, even for the weirdness that was his life. Because this was was Dean. But, not Dean.

Sam sat down on the couch next to Crowley and hugged his little big brother, whose face was still mashed into his neck. Dean hung on to him like he'd never let go, and as far as Sam was concerned, that would be fine. He rubbed the little boy's back and when Dean pulled his hair, he didn't even wince.

"Awww. It's a squishy Winchester," Crowley crooned, and took a pic.

"Doe 'way, Wowwy," Dean's little voice vibrated against the skin of Sam's neck.

"No. _You _doe 'way." Crowley poked Dean in the side with a gentle finger and Sam was surprised to feel his brother wiggle with a giggle.

"No, you."

"No. You!" _Poke, poke._

Dean giggled again.

"Wait. Wowwy? Is that…Mark?" The actor who looked like Dean dropped into the closest chair and stared across the trailer at Sam. "Because a guy who looks just like Misha just got hauled off by security and Bonnie said Jared got knocked out by a guy who looked just like him. Or so he—you?—said. Could someone explain what's going on, please?"

"That was him." Sam gestured to Jared with his chin; the actor had gotten up when he'd seen little Dean and disappeared but now returned with a clean diaper and a set of clean little boy's clothes.

"Here. The back of his jammies are all wet. He's soaked."

"Thanks." Sam took the clothes with gratitude and smiled at his twin for the first time. "'Preciate it. Dean, say 'thank you'."

"'Fank 'oo." Dean lifted his head and stared at the actor then looked at his brother. "Dam? Dat you?" He put his hands on Sam's cheeks. "Dam?"

"I'm Dam," Sam assured the boy, and blew out his cheeks for his brother to squish.

"O'tay, Dammy," Dean said and pressed his cheeks until Sam blew a raspberry. He giggled. "Do 'gain."

"Wait…did he just call the kid 'Dean'? And did the kid call Mark 'Crowley'? And you—him—whatever—Sam?"

"Sharp as his Mini-Me, that one is, eh Moose?" Crowley nudged Sam.

"I know, it's confusing. Try to keep up." Not Ruby tapped him in the shin with her foot as she passed. "I mean, we don't exactly understand how or why they're here—and it could just be that the catering truck put something a little extra in the scrambled eggs this morning—but the thing is, they're here." She frowned. "Except, I didn't have any eggs. I was at home. Maybe _I'm _dreaming all this. Though how I could be sleeping, I have no clue. I haven't slept since Shep was born, I don't think." She leaned over and put her hands on Dean's waist. "Hey, buddy. Want me to change you? Your brother doesn't seem to be hopping to it, and it's making me itchy."

Dean turned his head to look at her. He raised his eyebrows, predictably. "Hi, wady," he purred. "Nice rack."

"_What_?" Not Ruby leaned back.

"Oh my—I'm so—I can't believe he—wait a minute…" Sam began to apologize, but Crowley's silent shaking tipped him off. He turned to the giggling demon. "Nice, Crowley. Stop teaching my brother how to be a first-class perv."

"Don't blame me," Crowley protested. "The boy is sex in a onesie. I'm not doing anything but facilitating the process." He shrugged. "Besides, I have to do something back there besides read Dr. Seuss and play Make the Angel Cry. I'm assisting in his linguistic development."

"Wanna play peek-a-boo?" Dean waggled his eyebrows at Not Ruby.

"That's it. From now on, you're riding in the front." Sam glowered. "I'm sorry, Ru—I mean, Gen."

Jared burst out laughing; Sam figured the actor had once again predicted his very words. Or maybe he just thought it was funny that he couldn't think of his wife in any way but as the demon who'd dicked him and tricked him, and gotten him hooked on demon blood besides.

"Wait. He thinks you're Ruby?" Jensen said.

"No." Not Ruby bent again, this time lifting Dean from Sam's grip without asking. "He does _not_."

"O-la-la," Dean chortled as she carried him to the couch and began unzipping his pajamas.

"Dean." Sam decided not to think about it. "That's not nice."

"I think it's funny. And, it's French," Crowley said.

"I'd like to point out that you are no longer a demon in this universe. And I'm bigger than you. Keep it up, Crowley, and you'll be walking home from this dimension." Sam turned to glare at the former-King of Hell. "And it's not French. It's pervy."

"You're such a kill joy." Crowley crossed his arms across his chest.

There was another knock at the trailer door. This time, Jared got up to answer.

Sam moved to help Not Ruby with Dean, because his brother was trying to feel her up. But he froze when he heard a voice almost but not quite like Cas' say, "Do you believe that guy? He said he was an actual Angel of the Lord!"

"Yeah. Actually, I do," Jared said, and let the man in.

"Holy hell. He looks just like Cassie, only with a brain," Crowley said. "I mean, you can actually see it. The lights are on _and_ somebody's home. He's like the Anti-Cas."

The Anti-Cas' eyes widened when he saw Sam. And Crowley. "Um…this is a joke, right?"

"I'm still confused," Dean-who-wasn't-Dean said. "But if it makes you feel any better, I'm the one in the diaper." He pointed to little Dean.

"H'waaaay! Ass!" Dean squealed.

"That's the kid who butted me in the balls," the Anti-Cas said and hunched into a protective crouch.

"Now he _really_ looks like Cas," Crowley said.

"That's right." Not Ruby nodded, and finished snapping the buttons on the overalls she'd put on Dean. "There you are. I think we've got an extra pair of boots that might fit you." She paused. "He's got really big feet."

"It's a family trait," Crowley told her. "I don't suppose you noticed when you changed his diaper, but—"

"That's it." Sam rounded on him.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I'll stop!" Crowley squeaked and cowered. "Don't hit me! I'm smaller than you! Everyone's smaller than you—ow! Hey!"

"That felt pretty good, actually," Jared said. "Want me to hit him again?"

Sam shook his head. "Nah. I think he'll be good from now on."

"Awesome. I just punched the King of Hell," Jared told his wife.

"Good for you," she said. "Want to do something really amazing? Open this bottle of apple juice and give some to Dean."

"Ooh. Apple juice? Could I have some?" Cas' twin asked.

"Sure." Jared poured it into two sippy cups and passed them to Dean and the Anti-Cas.

"What is it with these boys and juice?" Crowley asked. "But look, Sam. The Anti-Cas takes the cover _off_ his sippy cup. Definitely a brighter bulb."

"Shut up, Crowley," Sam and Jared intoned. The actor sprawled back into the chair of his choice.

"Okay. So, now what do we do?"

"We go get Cas. And then we figure out how to get home." Sam sighed. "If we can."

Dean climbed down from the couch—after bestowing one of his trademark slimy kisses on Not Ruby's cheek—and made his way through the tangle of tall men's legs to stand next to his twin. He frowned thoughtfully before dropping his sippy cup to climb up onto Dean-but-Not-Dean's lap. "Wot's 'oo name?"

"I'm Jensen."

"Han'some."

"Jensen. Je-je-jen. Sen." The actor attempted to teach Dean how to say his name.

"Je-je-jen. Sen. Han'some," Dean asserted and patted his cheek. "Wite, Dammy?"

"Right, Dean," Sam sighed. "Whatever you say."

"Wuv oo Han'some." Dean cuddled into Jensen's neck, twisting his fingers into the actor's neatly gelled hair, and sighed.

"That's a fangirl moment right there," Crowley noted and pulled out his phone. "I'm gonna squee."

"Can _I _hit him?" Jensen asked.

0-0-0-0-0

_And thus the Angel of the Lord waited for rescue in the room of security._

The thing was, Cas realized, if he wasn't an angel in this universe, then the Voice of Prophecy shouldn't have been talking to him. Oddly enough, however, it was louder than it had ever been.

"I don't know why you're talking to me," Cas told the Voice.

"You talking to me, jackass?" The security guard on duty frowned at him.

Cas shook his head. "No. I'm talking to the Voice."

"Ah. Right. Gotcha." The man shook his head. "Whack-a-doo."

"Angel." Cas corrected.

"Riiiight." He sat down at the desk and sipped his coffee. "What are you? One of those Cos players?"

"Cas. My name is Castiel. But Dean calls me Cas. Not Cos. And I don't play."

"Whatever." He looked at his watch.

_And lo, the Angel looked up and realized his help had arrived._

"Ass!" Dean ran into the room and jumped onto Cas' lap. "I miss 'oo!"

"Hey!" the security guard said and stood. "Where did he come from?"

"Dean!" Cas wrapped his arms-and wings-around his human. "I missed _you_! I'm so glad you're safe. Where have you been?"

"Dammy, Wowwy. Han'some, de Anti-Ass, Not Wooby an' Jared go wike dis." Dean climbed out of Cas' grip and tiptoed across the room to the guard. "Hi, Man."

"Um…" the guard stared down at the little boy in confusion. "Is this—where—oof!"

_Thus didst the eldest Winchester smite the guard of security in the 'nads. And there was much rejoicing in the land of Vancouver as the Boy-Man and Angel of the Lord left the room in a hurry and joined their fellows._

0-0-0-0-0

"Maybe you could get a job as an animal trainer," the Anti-Cas told Crowley as they walked back to Jared's trailer. "That was pretty amazing, the way you got Dean to take down that guard."

"It's not hard training a Winchester," Crowley told him. "Especially that one. He's really quite smart."

"He really is irritating," said Jensen, who walked beside Sam. Dean rode his shoulders and tugged at his ears, but the man didn't appear to notice. Sam didn't know if that was because he had an extraordinary amount of patience and tolerance, or if it was because his big little brother had that much influence over a self in a different dimension, or both.

"Try riding cross country with him," Sam answered. "Especially when he turns sulfurous."

"I meant the angel. Does he always walk this close?" Jensen turned to scowl at Cas. "Dude. Get out of my ass. Wait. I can't believe I just said that."

"Sorry, Dean-Who-Is-Not-Dean," Cas intoned. "Dean-Who-_Is_-Dean often tells me the same thing."

"Ass in da ass," Dean-who-was-Dean asserted.

"I've got a headache," Jared said.

Crowley dropped back to wedge himself between Sam and Jared, and he called out to Not Ruby, "Look, luv. Moose bookends." He waggled his eyebrows at Ruby. "What do you think? You could have a matched set. Like a salt and pecker shaker. Let's make a deal—ow!"

"No deals, Crowley." Sam nazzed the demon on the rim of his ear.

"Don't do that. No, it was a joke."

"A really bad one." Jared flicked his other ear.

"Ow!" The former King of Hell glared at him. "I have no contracts anyway. Not here." He sighed. "I've got nothing but a huge fucking bald spot and bad eyesight. The only bit of magic we have is Cas's Voice of Prophecy and that could just be happening because the Angel's gone round the bend in the Crazy Train."

"True." Sam paused. "We don't have health insurance."

"You never have health insurance," Jared pointed out.

Sam sighed.

"Wait! I've got a great idea! Line up everybody—I want to take your picture," Not Ruby said.

Everyone grumbled but they clustered together for a pic. After all, she was right. Once they grabbed some snacks and found a car to boost, the Winchesters and their sidekicks would be on their way before the security guard could sound the alarm (they'd ducktaped him into his chair to slow him down). The only thing they'd have to remember this odd meeting by was a photo.

"Smile!" she said, and pressed the button. Then she squinted at her phone. "Oh, this is so cute. I'm gonna Tweet this right away."

"Send it to me," the Anti-Cas said.

"Me, too!" Jared said.

"And me!" Crowley said. "I'm at lovemesomemoose."

"Wait—_what_?" Sam turned to him.

"Eugh," Jared made a face. "Dude. That's so not right." Then he shrugged. "It's your ass."

"Yeah. Funny." Sam glowered. "Think about _that_ when you see Mark again."

"Not the same. I mean, he's got five kids and a nice wife. And no Twitter account about loving some of me."

"All right, boys. It's just a little joke." Crowley moved between them and took them by the elbows. "You know my heart belongs to Booby."

Sam looked at Jared and raised his brows. "It's true."

"Booby?" The actor's face crumpled in confusion.

Crowley's phone made a pinging sound; he squeaked and swiped the screen. "Got it! Look! That's my new screen saver, that is."

Sam frowned. Crowley shouldn't have been able to receive tweets in this universe. "Wait a minute…Crowley. Does your phone have service?"

"You heard it ding," the demon answered. "I've got a pan-dimensional plan. Remember?"

"And it works in this parallel universe?" Sam clenched his hands into fists so he didn't strangle the demon, who could have mentioned this important fact many hours—and much aggravation—earlier.

"Ten bucks extra a month and I get service in parallel planes. It's a good plan. Why?" Crowley noted Sam's white-knuckled hands and took a step back. "Wait a fecking minute, Sasqwatch. Why is there a vein popping out on your forehead?"

"Give me your phone." Sam ground through gritted teeth. _I so want to kill him._

"God help me," the demon muttered out of the corner of his mouth and took another step back.

"I said…give me your phone. Now." Sam advanced.

"Ack!" Crowley tried to duck behind the Anti-Cas. "He's going to kill me!"

"I'm going to call Bobby, and get him to spell us the fuck home!" Sam reached around the actor to grab the King of Hell. "Son of a bitch, Crowley! Give it!"

"Yay! Booby 'pell duck home!" Dean pulled Jensen's ears. "Sonuvabitch Wowwy!"

0-0-0-0-0

After a lengthy good-bye, more pics, and a nice lunch (ordered in by Jensen and the Anti-Cas) in Jared and Gen's trailer, Sam, Cas, Crowley and Dean found themselves sucked back into their own universe and dimension, thanks to Bobby's well-stocked paranormal pantry.

They tumbled into their former motel room in Niagara Falls.

"Ow," Sam complained. "It looks so much easier when they do it on television. I think I sprained something."

Dean yawned and cuddled into his shoulder, sucking his thumb. It was way past naptime. But then the little boy lifted his head. "Where BooBooKitty?"

"Uh…oh shit. I thought Cas had him." Sam looked at the Angel who was standing on the other side of the room, moaning with relief as he stretched his wings and cracked his neck.

He flapped and knocked the ice bucket off the kitchenette table. "I thought Crowley had him."

"I never have him. I don't like cats," Crowley looked up from his phone. "I thought Dean had him."

"I wan' BooBoooooooo!" Dean burst into exhausted-toddler tears.

"Oops. Got a thing I gotta check on," Crowley grinned tensely, and disappeared.

"Ah. Sam. Heaven. Gotta go. Um…" Cas pointed skyward and poofed out in a puff of sandlewood.

Sam sighed and cuddled his brother close. "It's okay, Dean. Let's read the book about the Steamshovel."

"Nooooo!" the little boy shrieked.

"Never mind. I'll just…let's get going, then." Sam sighed again and headed for the Impala. Maybe after a thousand repetitions of Wheels on the Bus, his big little brother would fall asleep and forget about BooBoo.

But probably not.

It was going to be a long car ride.

0-0-0-0-0

_Meanwhile, in a parallel universe far, far away (but mostly—you know—parallel to this one)…_

"Well, that was interesting." Jared put his feet up on the table and grinned at his wife. She pushed them down and kept picking up the remains of their lunch.

"I'm still not sure I believe it," Jensen agreed, putting his feet up on the other side of the table, also grinning at Gen.

"I think it's best if we don't think about it too much," Misha looked for a place to prop his feet, then decided against it. "Hey, Jared. When did you get a cat?"

"What?" Jared asked.

Misha gestured under the table. "Look. It's a ginger."

"Holy—Gen, when did we get a cat?"

"I didn't get a cat." She looked at the kitten staring up at her. "But it's cute. Can we keep it?" She reached under the table and picked it up. It had huge, luminous green eyes and it purred as it rubbed under her chin.

"Aww," Jensen said, reaching out to stroke it with a fingertip. "You should name it BooBoo."

* * *

_And-scene! That's a wrap everybody. Go home. But please, leave a review first._

_(Gosh, I hope Jared-oops, I mean Sam-manages to get some miles, in the proper direction, in today without the angel on his steering wheel and the demon on his back. If he head doesn't explode from listening to Barney, he just might.)_


	26. Chapter 26

_Author's Note: Point A to point B. We made it. I thought we'd never get there; mostly I thought I'd never get this chapter done. Halfway through, I realized the reason for that was because there's no conflict. I never quite resolved that problem, so...zzzzz. Enjoy the fluff._

* * *

**TWENTY-SIX**

In the end, it only took about fifteen repetitions of Wheels on the Bus before Dean's eyes finally closed and his head flopped to the side as he fell asleep. Sam pulled the car over to gingerly prop a rolled-up towel around the little boy's neck to support his head. He brushed his brother's bangs back from his forehead and thought about how much he was going to miss this.

Adult Dean would never allow him to do anything so…girly. Sure, he could punch his brother in the arm to show affection, maybe give him a quick shoulder bump bro-hug with a hearty back slap. But nothing gentle or too lovey-dovey. Sam was going to miss Dean's tight-armed neck clenches and open-mouth spitty kisses. And his "wuv oo's". And bedtime routines and bath time and finding things like Rescue Heroes under his pillow instead of machetes.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Dean's cheek. His big little brother stirred, grunted and sucked at his thumb but didn't wake up. He was exhausted by their adventure, and traveling to a parallel plane had probably sapped some of his energy, too.

Sucked about BooBooKitty, though. Dean loved his little beanbag cat. Sam backed out of the car and closed the door quietly (or as quietly as he could despite the squeaking hinges—why hadn't Dean ever applied some kind of lubricant to them? Why hadn't he? Sam decided he would, once they got to a place that was possible.) He leaned against the side of the car and sent up a prayer: _Cas, wherever you are, whenever you can...please find another BooBoo for Dean. Thanks._ Because even if Dean was only going to be small for another few days, he deserved all the happiness he could get—and Sam was going to make sure he gave it to him. He wouldn't fail at that. Not this time.

He got back into the driver's seat and got back on the road.

0-0-0-0-0

A small sound from the back seat alerted him Dean was awake. He peered into the rearview to see his brother blinking sleepily and yawning.

"Hey, buddy," Sam said, handing a cup of juice over the seat. "Have a nice nap?"

"No nap." Dean said firmly, taking the cup. He took a big gulp. "Wheah Ass go?"

"Ass is in heaven." Or someplace.

"Wowwy in heaven?"

Sam smirked. _Nope. Not a snowball's chance, little man._ "Maybe."

Dean sucked at the cup again, then pulled it out of his mouth with a popping noise. It reminded Sam of how his brother had enjoyed a cold beer after a hunt. Come to think of it, Sam realized, he'd missed those after-hunt beer and bro-bonding times, too.

0-0-0-0-0

They stopped at a McD's in one of those megaplex rest stops. Sam changed Dean's diaper on the trunk of the Impala because there was no changing table in the men's room. Not the best place, he realized; the cold air made Dean stealth pee all over the rear window.

"Oh, man. That sucks." A man appeared at Sam's elbow. "Car's a classic." He sighed and gestured. "That mini-van over there is mine. It's been baptized a million times. At least."

Sam looked; there appeared to be a small army of children hopping in and out of a bright blue van with the usual stick people decals, youth soccer stickers, and the _de rigeur_ "I'm proud of my Honor Student" proclamation.

Sam grinned as the man moved to peer at the car's interior, finished wrapping Dean up in his clean diaper and rebundled his brother into his clothes. He wrapped Dean in his coat for extra warmth and lifted him up to cuddle on his shoulder.

Another man approached. He had a small dog on a leash and a baby on his chest in a sling. "Hey, I saw that. Good aim, little buddy. Good duck, Dad." He gave Sam a "we're in this together" kind of a look. "You know, it could have been worse. Mine can aim poop. Knock your eye out at fifty paces."

"Ooh. I had one like that. One of the twins." The first man sighed. "Or maybe it was one of the quints. I dunno. It's all a big blur."

"Dude. Sweet ride." A third man came up to the car. He had a large white stain on his shoulder and when he got closer, Sam realized, he reeked of sour milk.

The first man narrowed his eyes. "Newborn?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "Spits up everything."

"Sucks," the first man agreed.

Before long, a small cadre of beleaguered daddies clustered around the Impala and oogled it with lustful, sad eyes. Dean would have obliged them by opening the hood so they could see the engine. He had his baby, they had theirs.

Because Sam didn't want them to notice the rainbow sticker Cas had cemented on for all eternity, he opened the hood for them, too. While they gathered around the front of the car, he wondered how long it would take for adult Dean to replace the bumper once he realized he couldn't peel, scrape or blow torch off Cas' colorful addition.

"So clean," one man commented as he reverently hovered over the engine. "A thing of beauty. Can tell you baby this thing."

"Not so much babying," Sam answered. "But lots of TLC."

Dean hugged Sam's neck and patted his shoulder. "Dat's Baby," he asserted.

0-0-0-0-0

Back on the road, Sam was surprised that they made such good time, putting many miles behind them. Dean was cooperative and cheerful, not asking for outrageous repetitions of Wheels, seemingly content with a few toys, some goldfish, a sippy cup, and some books. When his brother got fussy, Sam set up his laptop to play a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD, and that entertained Dean too.

It felt like no time at all before they made their halfway mark, and Sam decided to throw caution to the wind. He kept driving. Dean remained happy. Before it got too late, he stopped outside Schenectady for something to eat at an old fashioned, shiny diner that boasted a historical plaque on its sidewalk. Sam sat in a booth and watched his brother spin one of the rattley-sounding stools at the diner's long counter until their respective salad and mini cheeseburger with fwies arrived. He promised his brother a piece of apple pie for dessert and was amused when Dean ate most of the ice cream but only a few pieces of filling.

After that, Sam took Dean for a walk in the fall sunshine and fresh air at a nearby park and they played tag for a while until he could tell his brother was getting overtired and ready for a nap. He changed him (again), gave him a fresh, clean cup of juice and within twenty minutes of hitting the road (again), Dean had dropped off for his afternoon siesta. By nightfall, they were pulling into the predictably named and inanely spelled Pilgrimms Motor Inn in Plymouth Massachusetts, where they'd meet the witch who had toddlerized the oldest Winchester and traumatized—for a while, anyway—the younger.

All they needed now was Crowley.

0-0-0-0-0

"Where the hell is Crowley?" Sam asked for what felt like the hundredth time; he got up from the table where Dean sat intently coloring Bob the Builder in big blue scribbles and peeked out of the window to the parking lot.

"Hell is Wowwy," Dean said, and stopped to consider his work. He nodded, dropped the blue crayon and picked up the orange so he could color Wendy. "Duckin' sonuvabitch."

"We have a day to prepare. Two days, maybe. Depending on where she is. But I might be able to get to her tonight if I know where she can be located." Sam started to pace the small room. "If Cas would just wing it down here to watch you."

"Ass wings," Dean said. He got down and brought the picture to Sam. "Dis for you. Hang it."

"I just wish I knew where he was." Sam tore the page out of the coloring book and taped it to the bathroom door, but his heart wasn't in the praise he bestowed upon his brother's artistic efforts. Because if he wasn't going to be a toddler for much longer, what was the point? They were just making time until things got back to normal—or as normal as they ever were for the Winchesters.

0-0-0-0-0

Dinner was a pizza from a place that delivered; then it was time for bath and bed. Sam tried to follow their routine as closely as possible. Except for the Benedryl he administered.

"This will help the Sand Man to find you," he told Dean.

"Sand Man?" Dean climbed onto the bed and sat there with his toes wiggling inside his pajama feet.

"He has a bag of magic sand that he throws in your eyes to help you feel sleepy." Sam answered, realizing it sounded kind of creepy. _Magic sleep sand. Where do people get this crap?_ He scooped Dean up and moved him to the top of the bed, where he nestled him under the covers and climbed in beside him. The little boy burrowed under his arm to rest his head on his shoulder; they watched Scooby Doo on the motel television until Dean fell asleep. Sam switched over to the local news and watched until his own eyes grew heavy.

0-0-0-0-0

"Sam."

The voice came at him as if through a tunnel.

"Sam?"

It sounded like…soft. Like a girl's. A soft girl's.

Sam smiled.

"Bloody hell, you stupid git. Let me try. Sam! Wake the fuck up!"

Sam frowned.

"Ass? Wowwy?"

_Dean._ Sam opened his eyes and sat up to see the respective rulers of heaven and hell at his feet. Crowley was wearing a hat with _Je n'heart pas Vancouver_ printed on it.

His big little brother hopped up and bounce-walked down to the end of the bed; he leaped onto Cas' shoulders. "Ass! Oo is here. Dee missed oo. Oo got BooBoo?"

_Crap. _

Even Crowley winced. But Cas reached into his pocket. "I do not have BooBoo. But I have this." He pulled a small—real—orange tiger kitten out of his pocket.

"Great," Crowley said. "He's going to snap its neck, and then we'll all be in for it. You don't give a toddler a kitten, you sod!"

"No, Dean will be careful with it. And it won't die. It's stuffed." Cas nodded. "He can't have a real one, because Dean is allergic to cats. I just animated this one. Temporarily. Just like I de-animated the other one."

"You can do that?" Sam frowned. "Wait a minute…do you mean…BooBoo wasn't a beanbag kitty?"

"No. He was real. Just stuffed. I got him from the blind cat man's house."

"My head hurts," Crowley groaned.

"So…when we left him in the other dimension, he came back to life?" Sam winced. "Won't he be…kind of…scarred by that?"

"Maybe." Cas tilted his head and scrunched his forehead. "I hadn't thought about the psychological effects of being stuffed on a cat. Though I assure you, its consciousness was asleep during the time it was full of beans."

"I hope so." Sam watched Dean cradling the kitten. "I'd hate to think that whoever has him now—wherever he is—will have a nutty cat to deal with—Look out! He's going to launch it!" But it was too late—the recently animated kitten flew through the air, shrieking.

And landed-claws out-on Crowley's face.

"H'Raaaaaay!" Dean shouted, and jumped up and down. "BooBoo wuvs Wowwy!"

0-0-0-0-0

"Give him a cat, the angel says. Nice. I could have lost an eye." Crowley sat on the bed and hissed as Sam daubed his cheek with an alcohol swab. "Careful, Moose! That stings! So help me, Cas, if I get Cat Scratch Fever, I'm so gonna gank your feathery ass."

"You won't," Cas assured the demon. "He doesn't poop, so he doesn't need to use a litter box. No bacteria under his claws. Just fluff." He smiled at the little boy on his lap.

"Fwuff," Dean said, and hugged his angel.

"I'll give you fluff," Crowley muttered.

"So, she's here, right? We just have to catch her and then what?" Sam tossed the swab into the trash and started cleaning up his first aid supplies. He wasn't sure why he'd performed first aid on the King of Hell; he wasn't susceptible to infection. Instinct, probably. At least on Sam's part.

Crowley tilted an eyebrow at him then, and the Hunter realized the demon had been eavesdropping on his thoughts. "I get all tingly when you touch me." Crowley fluttered his eyelashes at him.

"Gross," Sam said. "Cas, where's the cat?"

"Hiding under the bed." Cas said, and touched Dean on the forehead. The little boy sighed and fell back to sleep. "Sam's right. We need to discuss strategy."

"Wait. You could have touched his forehead at any time and put him to sleep like that?" Sam stared.

Cas shrugged. "I could have, but it would have interfered with Dean's free will. Throughout human history, it has been the angel's role to watch, but never to interfere with free will."

"But—"

"If we hadn't arrived and awakened him, he'd still be asleep right now. Therefore, helping him go back into a restful state isn't exactly affecting his free will to stay awake. It's assisting him in returning to the state he wanted to be in that we disturbed."

"See that? The feathered flock can rationalize anything you know. They make it sound like it's not their idea to do something, when, in fact, they're just pulling the wool over your eyes as they exert their free wills all over your trusting human arses."

"That's not true." Cas frowned.

"Look, guys. I understand. And you can argue all about it later. But right now, I just want to get my brother back." Sam said. And he realized—it was true. "Dean needs to be an adult again. We've got a day left. So what's the plan?"

* * *

_Indeed. What is the plan? My plan is to post the next (more exciting) chapter soon. Please review!_


	27. Chapter 27

_Author's Note: And here it is. The moment we've all been waiting for. The witchhunt! Yaaaaaaay! _

_Okay. Now that we're all hunkered down in this foxhole together, I have a confession to make. Please don't hate me. Um…okay. Here it is. Um… I don't watch SPN for the hunts. _

_What? You don't either? You mean…Oh! Well then, let's get this puppy over with so we can get to the real climax of the story: in which adult Dean sees those photos of himself as an adorable toddler and blows a gasket!_

_I'll try to make this quick. How hard can it be to catch a witch?_

* * *

Chapter 27

"How bloody hard can it be to catch a witch?" Crowley asked as he stared into the Impala's trunk. They were waiting for the evil sorceress in a small, local park that bordered a beach; trees shed their red and yellow leaves onto ocean waves that sparkled and danced under the full moon.

"You have no idea." Sam made sure his taser was readied. "Because witches are human, and humans are crazy." He slammed the trunk closed. "They're unpredictable and never do what you expect."

"Oh right. I knew _that_." Crowley nodded. He followed close on Sam's heels. "This is something, isn't it? Me, the King of Hell, and you, a Winchester, on a hunt together?"

Sam thought of what Dean would say. What his father would say. And his over-the-top maternal grandfather. "Shut up, Crowley."

He bent to peer into the back seat, where Cas sat with Dean on his lap. "All set?"

"We have duice and kwahkahs, and we're watching Nemo. Oh! And I fixed the part you mentioned about the _M-o-m-m-y_ fish getting _k-i-l-l-e-d_. She's fine, now." Cas gave him a thumbs up.

"Awesome, Cas. Thanks. Dean? You doing okay?"

Dean held up his whole hand; it was easier than just a thumb. "Jus' keep fwimmin', jus' keep fwimmin..."

"Meow!" BooBoo added from his perch on Dean's knee.

"I will, Dean. Thanks." Sam nodded and reached in the window to scratch behind the kitten's ear for a moment before he took a deep breath and pushed away from the car.

"Okay. Let's go get her." He turned, closed his eyes and went into his Zone.

Any Hunter worth his salt—so to speak—can morph into his Zone in an instant. It's a place where nothing exists but the quarry, and where senses are heightened. Sounds are magnified so that the shuffle of a step, the knocking of a pebble, the snap of a branch, become as loud as sonic booms. The minutest whiff of an odor becomes dense as a pea-soup fog…

"Crowley, would you mind standing downwind? Yeah, that's good. A little farther. Thanks."

And vision is pinpointed, yet flares at the same time, so that the peripheral vision becomes nearly three hundred and sixty degrees in its scope. Darkness is only a state of mind; the eye can see into the shadows.

And the skin tingles with awareness, electric and sensitive to the slightest fluctuation in energy and temperature.

Sam was ready. "Let's do this thing."

0-0-0-0-0

_Several hours later…_

"She's around here, somewhere," Crowley said. "Did you check over there, behind the tree?"

"Yes. I checked." Sam narrowed his eyes at the demon. "You were just dicking me around, weren't you? There's no witch here. This whole thing was just one diversionary tactic."

"No it wasn't. I'm telling you, Sam. She's here."

"Then why can't _you_ just go _get_ her?" Sam felt like slapping his own forehead. Why hadn't he thought of this _before_ he traveled cross country, then across a different country, then over an ocean and even to a different dimension, with the King of Hell? _Sam, you are such a disappointment. Can't you do anything right?_ He heard his father's voice ringing in his ears.

"I can't go get her because she's warded. I can't find her. Only a Hunter like you can find her."

"Quit fucking with me, Crowley." Sam advanced on the demon, who took a step back.

"I'm serious, Moose. Look, don't you think I thought of that myself? Did you think I wanted to be trapped in that tiny space with your sticky, dribbly toddler brother and his fluffy-winged, sandalwood-scented sidekick? No, I didn't. But this needed to be done and you needed me to make sure you got here. Otherwise, your brother would stay a tot forever. Or until he started to grow. But he'd still be younger than you. And you wouldn't raise him to be the Hunter he is. The one he _needs_ to be. You'd give it up altogether and make him into a civilian. Useless." Crowley stopped stepping and held up his hand. "And open to attack from anything and anyone who has a bone to pick with the Winchesters. And the Campbells, for that matter."

"You mean, from anyone like _you_?" Sam didn't allow Crowley's upheld palm to stop him for advancing.

"You know I'm right, Moose. He'd never be safe. Never be able to be the normal kid you thought he could be."

"I could keep him safe."

"But you didn't. You had your chance to keep him safe the _first_ time you met this witch, and you blew it."

That wasn't true. Rage spilled like bile from the pit of his stomach and coursed through his veins until his heart pounded in his ears; Sam saw red. "Shut up! I'm going to kill—"

"Come back for seconds, did you?" A soft voice—a woman's voice—purred behind him. Sam spun to see his quarry. Youthful, vibrant, and smiling, she beckoned. Her curling blonde hair fluttered in the chill Atlantic breeze. "Let's go, Sammy, you sexy thing. Fill me with your essence."

"Well, that's just perverted, that is," Crowley murmured. "Get her, Sam."

"Gladly. Bitch." Sam lifted the taser and fired.

0-0-0-0-0

_A few minutes earlier..._

It was good. Ass was here, and BooBoo could say "men-ow" and there were turtles and fish on Dam's 'puter and kwakahs and duice and they were in the 'Pala, Dean's favorite place.

But where was Dam?

Dee frowned and looked up at Cas. "Wheah Dam go?"

"Dam and Wowwy went to catch a bad lady."

"Bad wady wike hurts Me-la?" Dee didn't like that. He frowned. Me-la had been scared until he made the bad lady go 'way with the pink rocks.

"Worse," Ass said. He pointed at the screen and laughed. "Look. The birds say 'mineminemine' just like you."

Dee didn't care about that now. There was a bad lady, and _Dam_ wasn't here. He was out _there_. With her.

He could get scared.

He could get _hurt_.

Dee stood to peer over the front seat; across the park, he could see Dam and Wowwy, talking. "Dere's Dammy." And then, Dam and Wowwy were playing a game, because Dam was walking with big steps and Wowwy was taking fast little ones backward and holding up his hand.

Dam looked mad.

"Gotta go help Dam," Dee said.

"No, Dee. Dam's okay. He is very strong," Ass told him. "You stay with me and I will keep you safe."

Dee didn't know why, and he didn't particularly care because that wasn't important; all that _was_ important—what made everything good and right in his world, the thing he needed even more than BooBoo and Ass and even the 'Pala—was Dam. And Dam needed to be safe. Nothing else bothered the little boy's mind at that moment, because everything focused on that one thought. _Dam. Need be safe. Save Dam from the bad wady._

He turned around and grabbed BooBoo to make him brave. "Dee go outside now," he told Ass.

"No, Dee. You stay here with me."

"No."

"Dee—" Ass reached for him; Dee knew that if the angel touched him, he'd be unable to move. Worse, he might fall 'sweep—because that had happened the night before when Ass put his finger on his forehead.

And Dee couldn't be 'sweep right now. Dammy needed him. "No, Ass! Duckin' sonuvabitch!" Dee put everything he had into his headbutt.

"Ah!" Ass breathed. Blood spurted out of his nose and tears fell from his eyes. But Dee didn't wait to see any more. He jumped out of the 'Pala's open window.

"Men-OW!" BooBoo screamed as they landed. Dee didn't let that stop him; he had an idea. He remembered how much it had hurt his eyes when the bad boy threw sand at him at the playground and Ass had saved him. And then last night, Dam had told him about the Sand Man.

"Magic sweep sand make bad wady sweep!" he told the kitten and scooped up a handful of sand. "Wet's go!"

As they rounded the car, Dee discovered he'd escaped from Ass just in time because the bad wady was dere, and she was reaching for Dam with sparkles coming from her fingertips. "Daaaaaaaam!" he screamed and ran as fast as he could, raising his fist as he went.

0-0-0-0-0

Sam pressed the trigger just as the witch spewed her magic—and then his heart rose to his throat as a small figure streaked past him, shouting his name. "Daaaaaaam!"

"Dean!" He tried to stop the taser from hitting his brother; he tried to stop the magic from reaching him. He leaped to grab at him and caught the small boy in his arms. Sam rolled just as Dean released whatever he held in his hands.

"Moose!" Crowley shrieked. "Squirrel! AUGH!"

Something—_sand?_—peppered his eyes. He shrieked and flung his arms out and up trying to block whatever hit was. He heard BooBoo Kitty yowling past his ear. Sam groped for his brother with nothing but instinct. Where was he? "Dean!"

"Aaaauuugh!" Crowley bleated beside him. "F-f-f-u-u-u-c-c-c-kkkk! T-t-t-a-a-a-sssrrrrrr!"

The witch cackled, the taser crackled. There was a flash of light and a prickle of magic and then...all was still.

Sam lay on the ground, blinking, hearing nothing but the sound of the waves crashing on the beach beyond, and Crowley's teeth chattering, and the small, desperate cries of his big little brother. "Dean? Dean, are you all right? Where are you? I can't see."

"Dam!" Dean's arms went around his neck. "Is oo otay? Dee got you, Dammy. Gonna be all wight." The little boy panted from exertion but still, his little fingers stroked Sam's hair to _give_ comfort instead of to gain comfort. "Don't be tared. Dat bad wady all gone now."

Sam blinked and wiped at the sand crusting in the corners of his tearing eyes.

"Ow. My dose! I t'ink Dean bwoke my bessel's dose again. Is he okay?" Cas appeared in Sam's peripheral vision. "Dean? Sam?"

Sam sat up, pulling Dean into his arms. He looked the little boy over and saw no injuries. Just his brother's eyes, large and luminously green in the moonlight, and silvery tears streaking his face. Still, Dean patted Sam's cheeks with his small hands. "Is otay, now, Dammy. She all gone."

Sam hugged him tightly. His brother was still small. But he was _alive_, and right now, that was all that mattered. "He's okay. I'm okay."

"Well, I'm bleeding not okay. Not that anyone cares." Beside him, Crowley sat up, the taser—smited, in pieces—in his fist. "Fucking hell! Don't _ever_ do that to me again! It fecking hurt!"

"Ducking HELL!" Dean grinned. "H'waaaay, Wowwy!" He jumped out of Sam's arms to dance on the sand. "All gone wady! All gone! Ducking hell bad wady. Duck oo!" Dean scampered off down the beach, tearing off his clothes in jubilation. In seconds, the toddler danced naked on the beach, leaving a trail of clothes spread in the sand.

"I'w do det 'im," Cas said, and trudged after the little boy. Sam realized his wings were dragging the ground behind him as long swathes furrowed the sand in his wake.

"Well. That went all to shit. What the hell, Moose?" The demon got to his feet and glared down at him. "Not only did you get me with your fecking taser, but she goosed me as she blipped out. Took a half a dozen years with her, at least." He paused. "I hope they make her sick. Those are Hell years, they are."

"You mean—" Sam worked out the math—"Thirty six years?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Fucking blasted sodding _witches_!" He pulled his cap off, threw it at his feet and stomped on it. His hair flew around his face.

Sam stared. "Uh...Crowley?"

"What?" The demon stopped hopping on his hat and blinked at him.

"You look..." Sam shrugged. "Damn. Don't take this the wrong way, but you look _good_."

"What?" Crowley snapped his fingers; a mirror appeared to be floating in mid-air before him. "Oh...my...GOD! Moose! Look! My bald spot is gone! I've got hair again!" He turned to the Hunter. "I'm not an old bald git anymore!"

"I wouldn't go that far—" Sam started to say, but broke off when the King of Hell disappeared in a puff of stinking yellow smoke.

0-0-0-0-0

"Well, boy. You look like shit. I said that last time, didn't I? Here, give him to me." Bobby flung the door open as Sam carried Dean up onto the porch.

"Nah. I got him. It's good. Just hold the door. Thanks." Sam slid past the older Hunter and sighed. _Home._ More or less. Probably more, now that he and Dean needed a more permanent base of operations. He couldn't be raising his brother out of the back of the Impala, and he'd be damned if they were going to live in shit-ass motels. He'd done that already. No matter what Crowley said, Dean could be a normal kid. And Sam could—and _would_, damn it—keep him safe.

Even if it killed him.

It probably would.

"I can't believe you drove straight through." Bobby closed the front door and shivered. "Brr. Gettin' cold out there. Wanna drink?"

"No, I'm done in. So's Dean. He only went off about ten minutes ago. He's upset. He lost BooBoo. Again. Bedroom still set up?"

"Got it ready for ya' this afternoon. Clean sheets and everything. Oh! And I set out his jimjams, a diaper and a clean onesie for you. They're on the other bed."

"Sounds awesome, Bobby. Thanks." Sam started up the stairs. The older Hunter followed close behind. "Talked to Annie today. She said she and Melia would be by tomorrow if you're up to it. She said you'd talked and it sounded like you and Dean were okay but she couldn't believe you'd drive straight through, either."

"Just wanted to get home," Sam said. "We had enough of an adventure. And we've got the traveling thing down, I think."

"Good. So..." Bobby watched as Sam lay Dean on the bed and began stripping him down. The little boy grunted and opened his eyes sleepily. "Uh oh."

"No, it's okay. Hey Dean. I'm just going to change you, okay? You can stay asleep. I'll lay down with you in a minute," Sam soothed.

"Otay Dam." Dean tucked his thumb into his mouth and sighed around it.

In moments, Sam had him re-diapered and jammied up in his blue fuzzy feeted pajamas with the firetruck over his heart. Still not a ward. He'd need to fix that.

Bobby pulled the covers down and Sam tucked the little boy in. "There we go. Hang on a sec, buddy. I'll be right there."

Dean rolled onto his side.

"Well, I'll leave you to it." Bobby said, and reached out to clasp Sam's shoulder. "Sorry it didn't work out, boy. You did yer best. She was a shifty bitch, that's for sure."

"Yeah." Sam nodded. He had done his best, and his best hadn't been good enough. Or maybe it had. Cas had told him that sometimes things happened for a reason, that the hard part was waiting to see what that reason was. He hoped the angel was right.

The older man left the room and Sam turned off the light before he stripped down to his shorts and climbed in bed beside his big little brother. He curled his arms around the boy and drew up his knees so that they were perfectly spooned and cuddled together. Sam kissed the spot behind Dean's ear. "Good night, Dean," Sam said. "Wuv oo."

0-0-0-0-0

"Ow!" Cas said as they materialized in the bedroom currently occupied by Sam and Dean. "That hurt, Crowley. You need to learn to shift better."

"Shhh! Shut up!" Crowley answered.

"Let me go!" The too-young blonde witch yelped. "Stop pulling."

"Shut up, I said." He shook the witch's arm. "I've had enough of you."

"Well, too bad." She stuck out her tongue.

"Charming." Crowley frowned. He looked over her head at Cas. "Do you believe her? The rudeness!"

"Well, she _is_ one of yours. You think she'd be polite?" Cas made a face.

"I know, but..." The King of Hell frowned down at her. "Whatever. We're here. So go on. Get busy."

"You can't make me do anything I don't want to." She crossed her arms over her chest.

"No, he can't. But I can." Cas reached out to touch her with his fingertip. She squeaked and ducked.

"All right! I'll do it. I'll do it!" She whined, and lifted her hands; she began muttering in Latin as she undid the spell.

"Where's the cat?" Crowley asked Cas.

"Oh! Right here." The angel pulled the kitten out of his pocket and petted it gently. "Poor kitty had a bad day. Nasty old witch took you for a ride."

"Good thing, too. If it hadn't been for BooBoo, we never would have gotten past those wards." Crowley reached out to pet the kitten; it hissed and swiped at him with claws extended. "Fecking cat."

"I could feel him, since I animated him." Cas nodded, and frowned. "I guess now that Dean will be big again, BooBoo can be a beanbag kitty once more." He set the cat down on the bed beside them. "I'm sorry, BooBoo. We'll always remember you fondly." He waved his hand.

0-0-0-0-0

There was pain. Immense pain. Hell-pain. Like his bones were cracking and his skin was splitting from his flesh. Dean opened his eyes, and his mouth, and tried to scream. But nothing came out.

He could hear the hissing of his own hair growing out of his stretching skin, the popping of his joints and the tearing of...his clothes? But that didn't matter because it felt like he was about to split open and splatter everywhere. Dean reached out, grasping for anything. Anyone. Behind him, he felt..."Sam?" He croaked. "Sam, is that you?"

"Dean!" Sam sat up; Dean felt his brother's arms go around his body—his naked body—and hold on tight.

"Dude! Personal space! And put some clothes on, you giant perv. What the hell! C'mon!" Dean rolled out of the bed to stare at his overgrown baby brother. "Where are we? And where—shit!—where are my clothes?" Dean grabbed the small scrap of fuzzy blue cloth he found near his hand and placed it—sort of—over his junk. The last thing he needed was his brother gawking at his junk.

"You're back! You're back!" Sam leaped to his feet. "I can't believe it! How did this happen?"

"I don't know. Where are my clothes?"

"Bobby. Bobby! He's back!" His little brother started jumping around like some kind of freak; the light flicked on overhead and Bobby stood in the open doorway.

"Well! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes. C'mere and give me a hug, you big bastard, you!" Bobby advanced.

Dean retreated. "I'm not hugging anybody until you get me some clothes. What the hell is wrong with you guys?" He paused. The last he remembered, they were trying to gank a witch and she was about to hex the crap out of Sammy. "How did we get here, anyway? And why the _hell_ were we in the same damn bed, Sam?"

"I've missed that. Haven't you? Listen to him!" Bobby ignored Dean and slapped Sam on the shoulder. "Full sentences. With lots and lots of syllables."

"I know! He's all grouchy. It's awesome."

"And he doesn't want to be naked!" Bobby rubbed his hands together, then lifted them in an alleluia to the ceiling. "He'll keep his clothes on! We won't need to worry about him peeing on the carpet."

"Or shitting on the floor."

"Yes! Hell, _yes_!"

_What the hell?_ "Hello? I'm standing right here. What are you...who shit on the floor? What the...hello?"

Sam and Bobby weren't paying attention; they were busy tossing a basket of baby clothes around and doing some kind of wierd primal dance that involved a bottle of scotch and a beanbag cat.

"Never mind." Dean looked around the room for a pair of jeans or shirt, or something, but all he could see were Sam's Sasquatch-sized jeans. He had no idea how he got there, which was bad enough, but to find himself naked—naked!—in bed, with his brother wrapped around him like a gum wrapper... he gagged. All that hair. And man-flesh. And...a...dick. He shuddered.

"Good to see you, man." Sam bumped his shoulder from behind.

_Yerg. Don't get near my ass with that...erg. _"What the fuck, Sam? Why were we sharing a bed? And where'd you put my clothes? What kind of perved out weirdness is going on, here?"

"Heh. He wants to know where his clothes are." His brother grinned and held up a tiny pair of overalls. "Try these."

"Are you all right? Seriously?" Dean glared, wishing he could vaporize Sam; at least then he could grab his brother's shirt to put on and cover everything that needed to be covered.

"Awww, he's pissed. Isn't that cute?" Bobby grinned.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "Did you hear it? He said, 'fuck', Bobby. With an 'f'. He said 'SAM'! Dean. Dean, say, "Bobby'."

"I'm not gonna say 'Bobby'. I'm gonna say 'Clothes. Fucking. _Now'_!" Dean couldn't understand why Sam and Bobby were practically squeaking and jumping up and down like p'tweens at a One Direction concert. They were hexed. That was the only answer he could come up with. "Aw, fuck it. I'm gonna go get a beer. You ladies can go to hell." He tossed the scrap of cloth over his shoulder and left the room.

* * *

_And what a view that must have been. Did I mention that Dean was naked? Because he was. Naked. Bareassed, free cheeked, nekkid as a Deanbird naked._

_Well...I feel a bit dizzy. Whew. Wow._

_Because we've all wondered what the fallout from this little adventure would be, and because I'd like to deliver to my readers (although I have to say: Dean. Naked.) let me know what you think might happen and I'll try to work it into the rest of the story—if Dean will cooperate. You know, adult Dean/toddler Dee—they're both difficult, demanding and opinionated. (But only one of them looks really yummy wearing fuzzy blue jammies. Or a piece of them, anyway.)_


End file.
